


The Life and Times of Septa Mordane

by starbird1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-07-04 00:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbird1/pseuds/starbird1
Summary: A few liberties were taken with the timeline here. In canon, Ned and Cat were married at Riverrun in the midst of the war following the death of Brandon Stark. Robb was born there. Ned brought Jon home to Winterfell and Cat joined him there with Robb after the war. That didn't suit my purposes so I have Ned and Cat at WF during a break in the war.





	1. The Stranger I

Paul's breath was hot and moist on her neck, gasping as he was to lift her body above his enough to pull her dress off completely. He slapped her scrawny rump but she squealed instead of moved and he shushed her sternly before joining her in gales of poorly muffled laughter.

 

His face, dark hair tousled, eyes squinting with laughter, mouth wide and cheeks tight, was what Shella Mordane considered the last memory of her carefree youth. An instant later the disapproving cough of her father ended the excitement of her clandestine meeting by the pond with her lover - had ended her life, as far as she'd been concerned then.

 

A short time later, properly attired and more nervous than she'd thought she'd be, Shella stood with her back to her father's fire as he gazed at her from behind his desk. She'd stood there many, many times in her sixteen years. It was always her father who dealt with her.

 

"Shella," her father began, his determination getting the better of his weariness and frustration. "I can no longer ignore your libidinous behavior. You'll ruin yourself, child, to say nothing of this family. Have you no regard for us?"

 

_Us?_ Shella wanted to ask. It was just the two of them. Her mother had died during Shella's birth and there had been no other children yet her father strove as though he were providing for ten and was constantly working to expand their tiny holding. Shella couldn't imagine why. Perhaps her future husband would be grateful to have an extra stand of trees on their land. It made no difference to her. More land just meant more work and more mouths to feed.

 

Work was one thing that didn't interest her. Wine. Wine was of interest. Handsome men were of interest. Pleasures of the flesh were of interest. Fine food and fancy clothes would have been of interest if she'd had more coin of her own. Her father allowed her to dress well but not with extravagance. Fine food was a rarity in their small village anyway and, besides, as Shella was often reminded, money was best invested and worst wasted. So, while Shella fussed over friends and finery, her father worried over crops and costs. She supposed she'd have to care about those things, too, one day, in the distant future, but, for now, she intended to enjoy herself.

 

Not that she wasn't thinking about the future at all. On the contrary, she congratulated herself on her recent conquest. Paul's family owned the local inn. His mother presided over it like a swan in a barnyard. She poured drinks and talked with the people and ruled over the serving girls. Her hands were soft, free of callouses, and adorned with rings. Her husband stepped in to settle any trouble among the guests leaving her to charm their coins from them. Mingling and mirth seemed to Shella the perfect way to pass the time.

 

More practically, she knew her plain features weren't going to bring the boys running. She could hardly explain to her father that, while he was laboring over his ledger, she was doing her part, too. There didn't seem to be a reason not to cast her net wide. Might as well see how big her catch could be. Her father wasn't a cruel man. If she could attract a suitable suitor, she felt certain she could bend her father's will to match her own. But that was for the future. She'd only just solidified Paul's interest. If her father intended her to marry, he was anticipating her by at least two years. Two years that she planned to fill with excitement.

 

As it turned out, he had no such intentions.

 

"Tomorrow you'll be going to the motherhouse near Seagard-" He held up his hand when he saw she was about to protest. "Yes, you'll go. I've allowed far more of your willful behavior than is meet. l was unable to secure a husband of the caliber I'd hoped for you because - the young men in the village - well, there was talk." Her father, to her very great surprise, flushed. "I intend you to have as much respect as can be managed now. The sisters at the motherhouse may well succeed where I've failed."

 

Shella's heart clenched at those words. She hadn't known her father considered her actions a failure of his. She wanted to assure him that that was not the case. She was only enjoying herself and sampling what life could offer a young woman with a lust for fun. Those protests would not sway her father, she knew, and so she grasped at the only argument she felt might help her. "What about our land? I'm your only child. A septa can't inherit. The Faith would claim it for themselves."

 

"I've decided to settle my estate on my cousin's son, Mychael."

 

"You barely know him!"

 

"I know he's married to a woman of good reputation and that their three small children are said to be bright and well behaved."

 

Shella's mind twisted around that news. If she had nothing to inherit, she had even less with which to attract a suitable husband. "My children could be bright and well behaved," she said in a feeble voice.

 

"Of course they could," he said kindly, "though I don't think motherhood would suit you. Mychael wrote to me last year expressing an interest in learning my trade. I put him off in case you . . . Well, I've reconsidered his interest."

 

"But Paul's family owns the inn." Shella didn't know why she said it. It didn't signify anything other than her own interest in having access to whatever rotation of faces came through their small village.

 

For a moment her father just looked at her. It was almost a look of pity and that was even worse. "Do you and Paul wish to marry?"

 

Shella's thoughts scattered. She didn't know if she wanted to marry Paul. She didn't want to marry him  _right now_  but maybe she would one day, when she was sure she'd exhausted her options. For Paul's part, he hadn't mentioned marriage. She didn't want to tell her father that, either, not after what he'd just witnessed. Heat crept into her cheeks. That seemed to decide him.

 

Her father stood and came around the desk. He laid a hand on her shoulder and waited until she met his eyes before speaking. "I hope you will allow the Faith to shape you where I couldn't." Her lower lip trembled. "Please pack your things tonight. We'll leave at first light."

 

Hot tears streaked down her cheeks as she left the room. She kept her back straight and her head up, as her father had endlessly instructed her, but she gave way the instant she was alone in her room, sobbing into her pillow for the better part of an hour. She considered sneaking off to find Paul but had no taste for further disappointing her father tonight, or for admitting to Paul the shaming punishment that awaited her on the morrow. No, she would much rather disappear and not endure the smirks and snickers of her luckier friends, the girls who would soon fill Paul's arms while she withered among the desiccated sisters of the motherhouse.

 

*

 

The motherhouse sat on a terraced hill facing the Cape of Eagles. The hill was covered with some scrubby-looking fields, dotted here and there by sisters in their dun robes, stooped over picking berries and the gods knew whatever else.  _They look like aurochs_ , Shella thought dully as she shifted her numb rear on the seat. There was a sept, of course there was a sept, and it was on the top of the hill.

"Look! There's the Booming Tower!" her father said. "The bell warns folks of reavers from the Iron Islands."

 

Shella had not argued with her father that morning. She did not want to admit how hurt she was and knew lashing out would simply make her pain clear. Instead, she smothered her feelings and was polite but distant. "When did the Iron Born last attack Seagard, Father?" Shella asked innocently, thinking she'd rather be a salt wife than a septa.

 

"Oh, you have nothing to fear, my dear. Lord Mallister has the area well in hand. That bell has only rung once in the last three hundred years."

 

_A pity._  Shella knew her father was trying to make her feel better and she suspected he even harbored some guilt over his decision to dump her off with these godsworn bores. She loved him a little for trying to portray this as an adventure but she would not make the destruction of all her hopes easy on him.

 

Their horse dragged them to the first terrace where there were a stable and some outer buildings that Shella cared nothing about. From there they took the winding track up to the motherhouse. It was just steep enough to make breaths short and thighs burn. They were nearly to the porch when the Crone herself stepped out and looked down a hatchet-like nose at them.

"Mother Stoutwall!" her father began, introducing himself and Shella. The mother looked upon Shella like one would contemplate a slug infestation. Shella turned away and took in the view. There was a market near the water, just south of the docks. The market, at least, was promising. She could always catch a ship if things grew dire.

 

"Young lady!" the mother's voice cracked like the dawn of doomsday.

 

"Shella, dear," her father prompted softly, indicating she should attend the mother with a small nod of his head in her direction.

 

"I asked you a question!"

 

"Please repeat it."

 

The mother drew herself up. "I asked if there was a particular order that interested you."

 

"No."

 

"No,  _mother._ "

 

"No, mother." Shella was already tired of this.

 

The mother eyed her with contempt for a long moment before turning back to Shella's father. "By the Seven, I wish I'd known you were going to arrive today. Another young woman arrived just two days prior and I'm afraid we are very limited on space . . ."

 

Shella turned away again, more than ready to trot down the hill to the wagon.

 

"Perhaps an additional donation might make it easier to find a spare cot . . ."

 

Shella turned, her mouth open. The septa's greed did not surprise her but she was shamed by her father's determination to be rid of her.

 

When they parted, her father pressed some money into her palm as he leaned in to kiss her cheek. "For emergencies only, you understand."

 

"Yes, Father," she murmured in response, curling her fingers around the warm coins. She counted them quickly as her father took his leave of Mother Stoutwall. She did not know how much a ship's passage cost but she was certain it was more than what she had, even with the small sum she'd brought of her own.

 

She stood rooted to the spot, feeling numb as she watched her father's wagon pull away.

 

"Septa Gale will attend you."

 

Shella had barely started to turn toward Mother Stoutwall when the old hag turned on her heel and stalked back inside. Shella turned back toward the water without really seeing it. She could just leave. Who was to stop her? She could go back, find Paul, and convince him to run off with her. Her father would be mortified, of course he would, and rightly so, but she was a woman grown. He would survive the gossip.

 

Shella never knew why she didn't take that first step. Perhaps it was the gods' will after all. While her eyes were trained on the cape and her mind was on the road out of town, a sister waited patiently behind her and eventually gave a gentle cough. Startled, Shella spun around.

 

"It is a lovely view, isn't it? I'm sure I could gaze upon the water forever. The gods have favored Seagard."

Shella would have agreed until the sister shared that last sentiment. "Oh, you like it here then?"

 

"Oh, yes. I feel called to be here."

 

Shella stifled the desire to scream. "I'm Shella Mordane."

 

"I'm Septa Enna Gale."

 

"A pleasure," Shella responded.

 

"My own," Septa Gale replied. "Would you like to see your new home now?"

 

Shella picked up her bags in response. The piety aside, Septa Gale seemed nice and was perhaps nearing thirty though she had a round, youthful face and sparkling blue eyes.

 

They followed a well-worn path to the rear of the hill, Septa Gale talking all the while, Shella feeling a stitch starting to nag at her ribs. The sisters' quarters faced the city. "New members are generally housed near the top of the hill if space allows," Septa Gale explained.

 

"So they don't run off?" Shella asked, looking down at the roofs cascading along the terraces toward the city. The huts were yellow and cream-colored with tile roofs. Here and there some rangy-looking flowers grew in the stubborn soil. Some huts were plain but some boasted window boxes with trailing vines and blooms, a few had pots of green plants, others had been decorated with seashells.

 

Septa Gale laughed. "Why would they want to do that? In truth, it has happened once or twice but we are a snug bunch here."

 

Shella doubted that.

 

"It is not to  _trap_ anyone," Septa Gale continued with a laugh, "we just like to keep our new members as close to the Seven as we can. As you move down the hill, you get closer to the community that you will serve. It's symbolic!"

  
Shella stifled a groan. Was this septry humor? Was she supposed to laugh or look pious or . . . what? "These are generous accommodations," she said by way of diversion, thinking at that least the huts looked a decent size.

 

Septa Gale's face lit up. "They are! Seven sisters to a house. I'm sure you'll like your roommates. You'll be just over here." They walked past a few more huts to a plain one in the middle of the terrace.

 

_Seven?_  Shella's hopes deflated. She was to be surrounded at all hours. She stood aside as Septa Gale rapped on the door and then opened it upon not receiving a response.

 

"Who are my roommates?"

 

"Septa Hanlon, she's been here for almost twenty years. She enjoys working with new sisters. We like to have a more senior sister with our new members to offer support and guidance. Also, the hill is hard on her knees so she prefers to live near the top. Most of her duties are confined to the sept now. Sister Greenleaf is the newest member in this hut and comes to us from near Rosby. Sister Mallin has been here three years and she's requested to move down to the next terrace soon but that's for Mother Stoutwall to decide. And then there are Sisters Marche, Darry, Blackney, and Bell. Sweet girls, all. They are from Maidenpool and joined our motherhouse together coming on two years ago." The septa stepped inside and turned to smile at Shella. "Here we are now."

 

The inside of the hut was stark white. With the sunlight coming in through the windows, it was bright and airy inside. Shella saw three alcoves with two bunks in each and one alcove with a stand-alone bed. Each alcove had two trunks and two small chests of drawers. In the center of the room was a round wooden table with seven chairs. Against the far wall was a fireplace. Small bookshelves were on either side. A half barrel, a basin, and a curtained alcove that Shella presumed hid the privy were between the cots on the left. A few personal items adorned the walls and the requisite religious articles were about.

 

"There's a bed already here," Shella said, gesturing toward the only unmade bunk.

 

"Well, yes, of course there is."

 

Shella pressed her lips together and vowed to write her father a letter as soon as she could, not to complain, just to let him know he'd been swindled. Of course, on the other hand, he'd been more than ready to pay. The letter would wait.

 

"I'll have linens brought to you. You may wear what you have for today."

 

"When am I given . . ." Shella waved her hand up and down to indicate Septa Gale's garb.

 

"Oh, not until you become a septa. The sisters wear simple dresses and aprons with a loose head-covering. You'll receive your coif, crown, veil, and wimple once you've taken orders."

 

"And when will that be?"

 

"It takes most sisters three years to complete their studies and service."

 

Shella stared at her.  _Three years?_

 

"Forgive me, but is this new to you?"

 

"Yes -" Shella's chest constricted. She suddenly felt ashamed. She did not want to admit her presence there was a punishment, that her father dumped her off for licentiousness. She cleared her throat. "Yes, it's new to me. I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the process. Would you please be so good as to explain?"

 

The septa smiled kindly. "Of course. Why don't we be seated?"

 

Shella took a seat at the table with Septa Gale and listened as the many steps to septahood were delineated for her. A thorough knowledge of the holy books, The Seven-Pointed Star and The Book of Holy Prayer, was expected at a minimum. Sisters often studied together, helping one another memorize names, dates, deeds, and passages.

 

"I imagine there may be spirited debates during study sessions," Shella said, depressed that this seemed the most likely source of entertainment.

 

Septa Gale's brows drew together for just an instant. "Oh, no. The text is clear enough. There's no need for interpretation." She smiled.

 

Service to the community was a requirement that could be achieved any number of ways. Seagard had as many indigent people as any other harbor town. "The children are the ones who need us most, it seems," the septa said sadly. "Seafarers are . . . Wanderlust, I suppose, is what it comes down to. A desire to never be settled. There are two orphanages in town and we minister to them faithfully. Do you like children, Sister Shella?"

 

The appellation came as a shock. The soft voice, the two syllables in "sister" whispered and clicked together like a manacle. "No!" she blurted. "No, I don't. I mean, I don't have any experience with children. I . . . I am my father's only child. My mother died giving birth to me," she added clumsily.

 

"Mother grant her rest," Septa Gale said sympathetically. "You may enjoy being with the children. They're so lively!" She smiled at some memory. "Of course there are the sick and lame -"

 

"I thought the silent sisters attended them."

 

"Once they've passed into the Stranger's care, yes. White septas see to the needs of the suffering."

 

Shella stifled a grimace. "Mother Stoutwall mentioned something about orders."

 

Septa Gale nodded. "I should have explained. There are four orders, though we only train two here. White septas, as you now know, focus on healing arts. Silent sisters, who are not regarded as septas, prepare the deceased for delivery into the Stranger's arms. They take vows of chastity and silence and wear gray, exposing only their eyes. We do not train for that specifically; you'd have to go to Oldtown, should that interest you . . ."

 

Shella shook her head.

 

"Silent sisterhood is truly a calling indeed. Nevertheless, brown septas concentrate their attention on doctrine, including law. Such sisters may be called to sit on trials and the holiest and most devout may even assist the High Septon! We offer a basic education for those sisters but those who wish to ascend to the highest levels of service must also go to Oldtown. Last but not least are the blue septas. This is the largest order. Blue septas, of which I am one, carry out the gods' work through community engagement. We assist the head mother and local septons in leading worship services. We tend the garden for the white sisters' medicinal herbs and plants. We grow and deliver food to the sick and poor. We sew clothing. We serve as tutors for young ladies and new sisters. We collect goods for the indigent. Oh, there's so much one can do as a blue septa!"

 

"Being a blue septa sounds nice," Shella said, thinking she looked best in that color and that nothing could entice her to be cooped up with the ill and infirm.

 

"In truth, we do not make much fuss over the particular orders. It all comes down to how you're called to serve. When did you receive your calling?"

 

Shella thought if Septa Gale didn't already know her background, she soon would so there was little to be gained by lying. "Yesterday."

 

Septa Gale's eyebrows shot up but, before she could reply, the door opened and admitted three sisters. The first one in was rather tall with a strong jaw and a scowl. She was followed by an older woman who clung to the arm of a girl near Shella's age.

 

"Who is this, Septa Gale?" inquired the tall one, who was peering at Shella with unrestrained interest.

 

"Sister Mallin, please meet Sister Mordane. She's just arrived today."

 

Shella latched on to the only thing she seemed to have in common with this starer. " _Sister_  Mallin? So you haven't completed your studies yet." She knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left her mouth. She'd only meant that they had something in common but Sister Mallin's head drew back and her upper lip curled in distaste.

 

"I expect to take orders very, very soon, Sister Mordane."

 

Shella tried to smile to smooth things over. "I suppose I'll have to find someone else to study with then," she said, not quite believing she'd ever be in Seagard that long.

 

"Sister Greenleaf," Sister Mallin snapped without looking away from Shella, "It seems the gods have witnessed your struggle after all. Sister Mordane, this is Sister Agnes Greenleaf. She's a new member as well and would benefit from your combined efforts."

 

Shella looked at Sister Greenleaf, whose face was passive. "I would be pleased to study with you," Shella said, worrying she'd not have a single friend within the walls of the hut.

 

"It would be my pleasure, Sheila."

 

"Shella."

 

" _Sister_ ," intoned Sister Mallin.

 

For a moment no one said anything. Then Septa Gale took the arm of the older woman who had been heretofore ignored. "Sister Shella, may I introduce Septa Hanlon?"

 

Shella nodded. "A pleasure," she said, thought she felt none. None at all. And the expectation of any future pleasure was evaporating with each passing moment.

 

Several minutes of uncomfortable conversation followed. Shella struggled to appear engaged but a weariness was seeping into her bones that felt permanent. She had been wary of Septa Gale at first but, when the time came, Shella found she did not want her to leave.

 

Shella stepped outside with her, though she was out of things to say. She raggedly inhaled the salty air.

 

Septa Gale touched her arm and it was all Shella could do not to burst into tears. "The Seven have a plan for us all. Sometimes it seems to run contrary to our own plans but have faith, Sister Shella, and all will be well."

 

*

 

All was not well. The girls from Maidenpool were an iron-clad, impenetrable clique. Shella had hoped to befriend them, seeing as they appeared to be having a good time, but they only peered at her as though she were a simple yet mildly amusing curiosity and then turned back to chattering amongst themselves. When Sister Darry asked about her home life, Shella might have embroidered things a bit but what did they know? They weren't maesters on her life or her village. Whether they'd sensed her disingenuousness or were simply unimpressed with her background the result was the same: they were not interested in admitting her as a fifth to their party. Shella was stung by this. She was not used to being unpopular.

 

Sister Mallin was clearly no fun and Septa Hanlon was clearly too old. That left Sister Greenleaf. Shella wondered if Sister Greenleaf would shun her, too, out of pure pride, since Shella had turned to the others first but, to Shella's relief, she didn't. Agnes had plain features and unremarkable light brown hair but she also had a sharp eye and a sharper sense of humor. She'd dubbed their four roommates from Maidenpool "the Maidens." It was so apt, given their penchant for (Shella believed, staged) wide-eyed enthusiasm over nothing and everything, that Shella was sorry she hadn't thought of it first.

 

Agnes also had a head start on in-house relations. The evening conversation would typically begin with Sister Mallin noting something lacking in one indigent family or another. "It seems things have not improved for the Marshalls," she might observe. Sister Darry would rush to add, eyelashes fluttering, "But their little boy is sweet." Sister Bell would chime in, "So sweet!" Sister Blackney would chirrup, "The sweetest!" and Sister Marche would bring up the rear with, "And smart!" which would signal a chorus of "So smart!" and "The smartest!" Shella thought she would grind her teeth down to stumps having to listen to this but Sister Greenleaf would eventually use something they said as a segue to ask Septa Hanlon about her past. The older woman would turn away and wave a hand like her past was hardly anything interesting and that she'd been embarrassed by the attention but then, without fail, she'd say, "Well, back in  _my_  day . . ." and it would be at least an hour until whatever yarn she told concluded. Listening to her rambling stories was, for Shella and Agnes, a welcome respite from attending their lessons.

 

Lessons were the worst. There were daily lectures on religious doctrine and religious theory and religious history and various passages from The Book of Holy Prayer and The Seven-Pointed Star and on and on and Shella wished she could teach herself how to sleep with her eyes open. Worse still were the discussion and study periods. Here, she was expected to participate. These sessions were for sisters and were intended to prepare them for their septas' exams. Shella knew good and well that the others were irritated by her lack of participation. Sister Greenleaf didn't add much, either, but she, at least, would make the occasional joke so at least her presence was somewhat welcomed by the others.

 

When they weren't being bored to death at lessons, they were being worked to death. New members of the motherhouse were required to rotate through a seemingly endless series of tasks: scrubbing laundry, cooking meals, menial kitchen labor, gardening, septry cleaning and service preparation, shelving books in the library, each chore more soul-crushingly dull than the last. White septas-in-training also did time in the infirmary and it was a small comfort to Shella that she did not have to learn about her sisters' bunions, cankers, rashes, and myriad other revolting conditions. It was all enough to make her want to throw herself from the Booming Tower. Between the less-than-half-a-mind she paid to her religious instruction and the tasks she completed half-heartedly, the days were long, slow, and excruciating.

 

Griping with Sister Greenleaf was her sole source of comfort. Agnes was as disenchanted with everything as Shella was but had the wit to make light of it. When Shella grumbled that they were slaves, Agnes said, "No, my dear, we are sell-souls," and Shella couldn't help but laugh.

 

Of course, any enjoyment would not be tolerated. They were the subjects of many a pointed look during services and talkings-to by their various task leaders. After an "unseemly and inappropriate" giggling fit while chopping vegetables in the kitchen, Shella muttered to Agnes, "What I wouldn't give for a drink."

 

Agnes raised her eyebrows. "Why didn't you say so?" She reached down into the neckline of her dress and fished out a key on a chain.

 

"What's that?" Shella asked. She tried not to sound accusatory but she did feel as though her friend had been holding out on her.

 

"A spare key. Sometimes a lady wants something better than the peasant swill they give us."

 

Shella wondered how long Agnes had had the key and how she'd gotten it but wouldn't allow herself to ask for fear of sounding petulant.

 

"What else can you get?"

 

"Not moon tea."

 

As Shella stumbled over a response Agnes grabbed her elbow and hauled her into the pantry. "Cough if anyone comes," she instructed Shella before she moved to a cabinet off in the corner of the room. She deftly opened it and reached in to grab a flagon without having to search. Shella pressed her lips together.  _She's obviously done this before._

 

Later, after the meal and the interminable prayers, they took a walk. Agnes seemed to know which sisters worked the evening shift and, so, which huts would be empty and without a lot of nuisance foot traffic outside.  _She's certainly learned a lot since she's been here_ , Shella thought, a little aggrieved. Shella's thoughts mainly revolved around how bored she was all the time. She refused to recognize the resentment she felt toward her father.

 

Agnes had grabbed some summer wine and they drank it together as the sun set. The sweet liquid soaked into Shella and she felt her body relax as her mind became pleasantly fogged. A little more would have had her in her cups and she thought sadly how long it had been since she'd had good wine and not the substandard ale they were usually served. It irked her that she was at Agnes's mercy for more but it was better than nothing. She thought about how to suggest they make this a regular thing when Agnes anticipated her.

 

"They don't restock often. Septa Whiting has to keep a certain amount of the good stuff on hand in case Mother Stoutwall has guests."

 

"Won't they notice a whole missing flagon?" Shella almost hoped they would but didn't make a big effort not to feel petty about it.

 

“I’ll put it back when we’re done.”

 

“How will you get more wine to fill it?”

 

Agnes snorted. "I’ll fill it with water."

 

"Water?"

 

"Septa Whiting would know if they were empty, wouldn't she? She's not going to break the seal of the head mother's finest wines just to make sure the flagons contain what she thinks they contain." Agnes laughed then raised her glass in a mock toast. "So don't get greedy."

 

Shella bristled. To prevent saying something that might lose her access to whatever decent wine Agnes could get for them, she took a dainty sip from her own glass and ignored it when her friend reached for the flagon again.

  
"What brought you to the motherhouse?" she asked instead. She'd already decided she would say she was fulfilling her father's dearest wish if the question was returned to her.

 

"An inconvenient marriage," Agnes said, squinting out toward the harbor.

 

"You were married?" Shella was surprised. "How could you be a sister if . . ."

 

Agnes darted her eyes toward Shella with the briefest look of irritated impatience. "No, I was  _avoiding_ a marriage. He was old. His breath smelt like burnt cheese." She grimaced. "My father insisted but . . . so did I." She shrugged.

 

Shella thought that over. She was not sure she would have made the same choice. "He might have died," she suggested after a few minutes' silence. "You said he was old. You're only seventeen. To give up, I mean, devote yourself to a lifetime of service to the Seven just to avoid one man . . ."

 

Agnes chuckled. "I'm serving them for now. I haven't taken vows. I probably won't, either."

 

Shella turned to gape at her. "But . . . but what will you do? How will you leave? Where will you go?"  _And how can I do the same?_

  
"I don't know yet. But something will happen. It always does."

 

*

Several weeks after she'd been abandoned, Shella received a letter from her father. Mychael had arrived and was very industrious. The extended family was well. The crops were healthy. One of the cows had given birth. Shella read the cheerful missive with annoyance. She'd not found the desire to send her father a single word. She knew his wishes for her health and happiness were sincere, as was his wish that she was applying herself to her lessons. Her mind wandered briefly to Paul. There'd been no mention of him, of course, nor of any of her friends. Not that it mattered. She wasn't going back there. That was one thing of which she was certain.

 

She cast the letter aside with frustration. It occurred to her that she'd been wallowing. Agnes had found ways to make her stay at the motherhouse tolerable. She knew a lot of sisters Shella didn't. Useful ones, apparently. She'd figured out who was working when, and where. She'd somehow gotten that damn key. Loathe though she was to admit it, Shella knew her situation was not going to improve unless she did something to improve it.

 

One night Agnes returned from mission work in town practically whistling.

 

"What are you so happy about?" Shella asked under her breath. Septa Hanlon was snoring quietly in her bed. Sister Mallin was at the library looking up something she thought she’d missed on her septas' exam and the Maidens had just left to prepare the septry for the early morning services.

 

"I was in town."

 

"I know that."

 

"You should really volunteer more."

 

"And why -"

 

"Shella, by the Seven, you really are thick sometimes."

 

Shella drew back, stung and angry but too surprised to make an immediate comeback.

 

Agnes went on as though she was explaining something very simple to someone very slow. “Volunteering to bring food and clothing to the local poor puts one in the path of men, some of whom recognize that not every sister is a walking prayer book. You need not consign your body and soul to the Stranger just yet."


	2. The Stranger II

Three days later Shella was on the wharf with a group of sisters collecting coins and clothing for the orphanages.

 

"I'm so pleased you've decided to join us, Sister Mordane," Septa Gale said as she bustled around arranging things. "I know it can be an adjustment, being away from one's home and family, but I'm sure you'll find service will help you just as much as it helps others. Have faith!"

 

Shella did not have faith. She did not want it, either. Shella tried to smile back at her and rang her bell. "Alms for the poor," she called indifferently. The sailors generally ignored her. Some laughed, sensing easy prey for a joke, but Septa Gale's happy, bustling presence seemed to put them off. Some women in pretty dresses came by and dropped a few coins in the collection box. That brought the sailors closer and Shella listened to their flirtations with jealousy.

 

The sea air, the sunshine, and being around people again revived something in Shella. She couldn't believe she'd kept herself confined to the hill for so long! And there were men  _everywhere_. Eventually she was able to identify some of the townspeople and the fishmongers but there were also sailors galore. Each wave seemed to bring in a fresh supply. Though most ignored her, some talked, asking for news (she had none) or telling her about the places they'd just been (she didn't really care). But she laughed and smiled and enjoyed herself as much as she could without garnering a reprimanding look or word from the head septa of the day.

 

It was an overcast day when she and the sisters were selling bowlfuls of soup to raise yet more funds for the never-ending needs of the orphanage. She had, as yet, not actually been to the orphanage but that didn't stop her from telling passersby about how desperate the children's situation was. She called out the various hardships donations would alleviate as a group of sailors approached.

 

As the sisters implored the public to be generous, one solid-looking man let his eyes range all over them. Shella had done her own, more discreet estimation of the men, and the most attractive of them, inexplicably, stepped forward and spoke with Sister Mallin.

 

"Don't remember seeing you here before," a voice said. It took Shella a moment to realize the comment was addressed to her. The man was older than her. He was swarthy and bulky with erstwhile muscle. Dark hair covered his arms and the longer hair on his head was pulled into a sloppy knot at the base of his neck. He wasn't what she usually found attractive but he had a force about him. Also, he was the only one talking to her. "I'd remember a pretty face like yours."

 

Shella subconsciously tugged on her head covering. It had been a long time since a man had paid her a compliment. "I'm fairly new to the motherhouse," she said, her blood suddenly thrumming through her veins.

 

"Name's Mac."

 

"I'm Shella," she said with a smile, and then added because Sister Mallin was nearby, "Sister Shella."

 

"The gods must listen to your prayers especially."  
  
"Why's that?"

 

"You haven't wrung out their ears yet," he said with half a smile, peering at her to gauge her reaction.

 

Shella laughed.

 

"Maybe you could say a prayer for me."

 

"Of course."

 

"I knew you would. Seagard has the nicest, prettiest septas. That's what I was told and that's what I've seen since coming into port."

 

Shella decided he was more handsome than for which she'd originally given him credit. "What brought you here?"

 

"A boat," he said and then laughed. Shella laughed, too.

 

"My captain had business here. Trade. You know how it goes. You bring cargo into port only to trade it for cargo that's wanted somewhere else."

 

Shella nodded as though trade was a topic with which she was familiar. "I guess your cargo's not wine or there'd be a stampede to the dock."

 

Mac's eyes widened and he burst out another gust of laughter. "I like sour wine. Dornish red. You ever had it?"

 

Shella liked sweet wine, expensive sweet wine that went down smooth as a sigh. Not that she'd had much of that. "No."

 

"I'll give you a bottle."

 

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly accept."  _Not if Mother Stoutwall found out about it._

 

"Call it appreciation for services well rendered. My sister's sick, you see. If you'd come to visit with her, it would ease her suffering."

 

Shella knew immediately there was no sister. "I'd be happy to pray with her."

 

"She'd like that. We both would."

 

"Where shall I call?"

 

He gave her the address of a boarding house a bit away from where the sisters usually traveled. The plan had Shella in an absolute flutter. Agnes’s words had given her hope and now, finally, after weeks, it appeared her prayers might be answered.

 

Hours later, hours fueled by impatience to finally be seen as a woman again, to be touched by a man, she made her way there, a basket containing fish broth and bread hanging from her arm, The Book of Holy Prayer clasped in her hands. She'd recruited Sister Greenleaf to go with her, since it wouldn't do to go alone. Agnes was only too happy to be left to her own devices and promised to meet up again at an appointed time.

 

The boarding house was drafty. It was not near the disreputable wharves but nor was it far. She followed Mac's instructions to use the rear stairwell and found the room without issue. Shella's heart ricocheted from her chest to her throat and back again. If she was caught . . . An ache settled in her loins and drenched her smallclothes. The need in her breasts centered on her nipples. She stopped and took a breath. How long had it been since she'd last been with a man? Too long.  _Much_  too long. Mac wasn't much to look at but it wasn't a man's face she was missing.

 

"You ready?" he greeted her, the smell of wine gusting on his breath, his eyes a little unfocused.  
  
"Where's your sister?" Shella asked, just for pretense. She didn't want Mac to think she did this all the time. For some reason, she wanted him to know she was a woman of good breeding, despite her need.

 

"Not here. Must be a different port. They all look the same after a while." He gave her a nasty little smile. "But not the septas. Like I told you. Not many pretty ones."

 

"I remember."

 

"You listened. That's good."

 

Shella didn't want to listen much longer. She wanted to forget for just a while that she was on her way to being godsworn. She wanted a physical release and a break from who she was being forced to be. "Do you, um, visit with septas often?"

 

"Not as often as I'd like. Hard to find a young one away from those old hens."

 

He leaned in, swayed, steadied himself, and kissed her. She barely responded. He tasted horribly.

 

"You haven't done this before," he observed. He groped for a flagon on a nearby table and loudly gulped down the bitter wine. He didn't offer any to Shella.  
  
"No." It struck Shella that he meant  _at all_  but she saw no need to correct him. Playing the innocent appealed to her.

 

Mac grinned and nodded. "It's all right."

 

Shella made to undress. "Shall I?" she asked, casting an alluring look from beneath her eyelashes.

 

"No, leave it on." He fingered her head-dress. "I like it. Makes you look . . . clean." When Shella didn't comment, he went on. "Well, no point in waiting, right?" He nudged her toward the disheveled bed and pulled his tunic over his head, revealing a barrel-like torso littered with indistinct tattoos. He lowered his breeches. Shella leaned back and he shoved his hands under her skirts, gripping her legs and fumbling her smallclothes off. "You look proper now but you aren't. You aren't at all."

 

"I am -"

 

"You're  _not._ "

 

Shella was speechless. He glared at her. Then he seemed to reconsider. He stroked himself. He gave his erection an appreciative glance and nodded down at it. "Feel it." He grabbed her hand and wrapped it around his cock. "Never felt its like before, have you? Have you? No, because you're a septa."

 

"I'm not a septa yet."

 

"I know that," he said irritably. "You'll do, though, sweetling," he patted her cheek roughly.

 

His cock was short but thick. She avoided touching the thick hair from which it sprang. Drawing her hand over his inconsequential length, she let her fingers play lightly over his head.

 

"Not going to lie, not to a septa," he gave a little chuckle, "it'll probably hurt. But I'll help you, so I will, being as the septas in Seagard are so nice and pretty. So nice and generous and accommodating." An idea seemed to penetrate his brain. "You're a maiden. Maiden's gift. Maidenshead. Like  _the_  Maiden, right?" He laughed. "I like maidens and I like gifts. The way I see it, I'm giving a gift to maidens. A  _great_ gift." His eyes dropped to his cock again and Shella wondered just how drunk a man had to be to spew such nonsense with a straight face.

 

He caught her arm and pulled her forward. "Hey, come up here." Shella sat up. He put his hand on the back of her neck and pushed her face towards his groin. "Lick me."

 

Shella saw a pearly drop slide down his head and drip from the rim onto the threadbare carpet. She took him into her mouth. The salty taste of him was familiar enough but the musky scent emanating from his crotch made her want to gag. She let her teeth drag over him and he shoved her back. Normally Shella took pride in her performance but, as she was playing the maid and he was something of a lummox, she saw no need to waste her skills on him.

 

"Watch the cargo there, girl."  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. "I've never done this before."

 

Mac seemed satisfied with that. "No, you haven't, have you? But today’s your lucky day."

 

Shella cut him off. "Maybe you could do the same to me?"  _Gods, do_ something _to me that feels good._

 

His bushy brows drew together. "Why? It's not like that for girls, septa. Maiden's curse. No pleasure from the act. Don't they teach you that at the motherhouse?" He tapped his stubby fingers against her shoulder and Shella laid down.

 

"So many skirts" he muttered, shoving the fabric aside. He palmed her crotch like he was vaulting over a fence post and then, gaining his bearings, worked a finger inside her. "That's the thing about maidens," he said conversationally. "Never wet enough."  
  
Shella thought about her sodden smallclothes and the hopes she'd had for this encounter as he prodded her some more, his nail digging painfully into her flesh. "Ouch!"  
  
"I'm not even deep yet."

 

"Try licking," Shella said again. "It might add some moisture."

  
The pig spat into his hand and rubbed it on her. Shella winced in disgust. "That feels nice," she lied. "Rub me again." The pent-up pressure was killing her. She longed for an escape that would not leave her arm aching, for some masculine attention and contact. She would leave as soon as it was over.

 

"Don't feel good to me." He heaved himself between her legs and looked down at her. "Look at you. All dressed. Head covered." He grabbed a breast hard. "All prim and proper-like but you're not a lady. You're a septa. A tight -" he pushed into her without preamble - "scolding septa. What do you have to say now?" He began to thrust, his belly squashing against her, pressing hopeless wrinkles into her skirts.  
  
Shella gritted her teeth and tried to discern some flicker of pleasure.  _Find something attractive about him_ , she thought.  _Every man has an attractive feature._ His skin was sticky with salt and he was sweating out the wine. She closed her eyes and thought of Paul. His features were blurred now in her memory, his need more prominent than his skill or generosity. Surely it had been better than that. Surely it was better than this. Mac grunted and pushed. "Not so good now, are you?"

 

Shella was bewildered.  _What is he talking about?_

 

"Think you're better'n me?"

 

"I never -"

 

"Shut your mouth." He was grunting and panting. A bead of sweat dripped off his forehead and hit Shella's cheek. She flinched.

 

"No, don't you turn away. You look at me. You watch." He leaned back on his knees and slowed his thrusts. He tried to push down her skirts so she could see him penetrate her. Shella glanced at his face instead. It was red. He mopped away some sweat with the back of his wrist and fell forward again. He thrusted and screwed up his face as though in agony. Shella imagined she looked the same. His cock might have been a blade for all the pleasure it was giving her.  
  
"What's wrong with you?" he asked between gasps of air. "You should be moaning like a whore. The others did. Grateful, they were. Eager to please. Not like you."  
  
"I'm no whore," Shella said with effort.

 

Mac chuckled. "They all say that. But you're worse than a whore. You're a  _septa_. A  _septa._ " He banged into her with each word. "Septas lie and tease and preach and judge."  
  
"I've done none of those things."  
  
"You will. You all do. But you remember. You remember what I said. You remember  _this_ ," he plunged into her again, "and then you remember that you're not better'n any one of us. You're not. You're not." With a grunt, he spent himself inside her and then wiped himself off on her underskirt. "Not so prissy now, are you?" he said, rolling onto the bed beside her.

 

Shella instantly got up. Her legs felt dead from hanging off the end of the bed. She stooped to get her smallclothes and found she could not look at Mac. Her need had evaporated with her moisture and this had all been a waste. A terrible, ill-judged waste. 

 

“Hey,” he started to say but Shella snatched up her basket and stepped quickly to the door. She walked out of the room with as much dignity as she could muster though his seed was running down her leg.

 

"Guess you don't want the wine, then.”

 

She wanted to slam the door but didn’t want the attention it might bring. All her restraint earned her was the ability to hear him mutter, “Bitch,” just before the door closed.

 

*

 

At first, Shella was angry with Mac. He could have been more considerate. He could have treated her with the respect due to a lady. Then she was angry with herself. Not for going off with a man she didn't know but for making such a poor choice. She wasn't entirely hopeless in the way of looks after all, she thought, straightening her spine. Mac had singled her out.  _Maybe you were just an easy mark,_  whispered a nasty little voice in her heard. She pushed that thought away and couldn't even allow the one to form that suggested her father had been right. Every time it tried, shame began to burn within her. She would not concede that her behavior was . . . well, it wasn't wrong. It just wasn't. If her father had left well enough alone, she'd be making love with Paul and might even have been married. But she knew that was a lie. Paul was just a good time until someone better came along. Someone with better prospects. And Mac was just a filthy sailor. And she had let him use her like a common whore. She'd told herself, on the way there, that there was nothing wrong with loving a man. The gods had made men and women for that purpose, hadn't they? But it had been a completely one-sided transaction. She'd been nothing but used and she'd allowed it and she didn't want to look at herself for a long, long time.

 

But she had to. And so did Septa Tilney. Shella's woman's place got red and itchy and she could barely walk for the need to scratch. After two days, she could take it no more. She sought out Septa Tilney and suggested that the change of weather had brought about some kind of infection. "I'm sure it's the sea air. I had a similar thing happen when I was a girl after a trip to the coast."

 

Shella could not keep her cheeks from flaming when she was examined. "I've seen this before," was all Septa Tilney said. "I can make you a salve but it will take a little time. Un _for_ tunately, I just used up the supply I had on hand on some of the girls from the brothel."

 

Shella thought she detected a trace of judgment in the sister's tone but, so long as she was willing to keep Shella's condition to herself, she would endure her superiority. "How long will it take to heal?"

 

"I thought you said you'd had this before."

 

"No - I mean, I said I had it as a girl. I don't remember how long it took to get better."

 

"Several days, if you're faithful with your application. Apply it twice a day. And  _wash_  your  _hands_ ," she added in a tone that made Shella feel contaminated down to her soul.

 

Shella wondered if the gods were punishing her but she knew her father had punished her first and now she'd done an even more thorough job herself for the salve stunk and she felt marked with sin for all to smell. It was a full year before she could respond to a man again and, when she did, it was to Sam, a handsome boy a couple of years older than herself with a nose that had been broken at some point and a shy, respectful address.

 

Shella had been laughing at something Sister Greenleaf said and, when she turned, she was looking into a pair of gray eyes. She started.

 

"I'm sorry," said the young man. "I didn't mean to scare you."

 

"It's all right. You didn't scare me. I just wasn't expecting you."

 

"I'm new here."

 

"To Seagard?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Oh. Where are you from?"

 

He named a small inland village Shella had barely heard of. “I'm Sam, by the way."

 

"Sister Shella."

 

"Like seashells?"

 

Shella smiled. "I don't think so. I'm not from the coast, either."

 

They chatted for a while longer, stopping only when Septa Gale trilled that it was time to pack up.

 

"Do you come here often? The sisters. The septas. Do the septas minister to the poor here often?" He blushed and Shella felt a tremble in her knees. She smiled at him just to see what he would do and he smiled back then looked down and turned an even deeper shade of red before raising his eyes to hers again.

 

"We're often near the market though not always in exactly this spot."

 

"I see. I've never lived near a motherhouse before. We have only a tiny sept in our village. Not even any statues of the Seven."

 

Shella nodded and he hurried on. "But I'm here now so maybe I'll see you again."

 

"I hope so."

 

*

 

She did see him again. After he'd come upon them near the dock, Sam found her again near the orphanage and again at the market. They talked each time. He was polite and friendly with the sisters but he always found a way to talk to Shella in semi-privacy. He didn't touch her or try to get her to touch him. He simply talked in his quiet way, seeming in no rush for the time to pass or to be waiting for someone else to come along. Sam seemed content in her company and, to Shella's surprise, she was content in his.

 

"I never asked what you do," she said after a few weeks, astonished that his livelihood had never crossed her mind.

 

"Right now I work at my family's fish stall but, one day, soon, I hope, I'd like to buy the boarding house and make it an inn. A nice one. Not like what it is now. The clientele can be a little  . . . rough. Not that you want to hear about that."

 

"I already know about it," Shella said, then added, horrified, "I mean, through what people tell me. We work with all sorts."

 

"I didn't mean to imply you had first-hand knowledge. Of course you don't." He gave her a soft look. "You couldn't."

 

Shella actually blushed. Her heart beat a little faster.

 

He cleared his throat when she didn't reply. "It's nice of you, and the other sisters, of course, to do this." He gestured toward the collection boxes. "It seems you're always here."

 

Shella found she didn't want to lie to him. She didn’t augment her role or interest. "The sisters like to be useful."

 

Soon Sam became a regular presence. Sometimes he was just delivering fish here or there but, even so, he would stop and say hello or, if he was extremely busy, he would just smile and nod. Shella found herself missing him when he wasn't there and keeping an eye out for him whenever she and the others came down the hill. Whenever the motherhouse was collecting for the poor, Sam made a donation. "If you keep this up, eventually we'll be collecting for you," Shella teased. Sam laughed and Shella admired his straight, white teeth. For as shy as he was, he laughed heartily, fully giving himself over to the enjoyment of the moment. It was such a clean, pure sound that Shella found herself longing to hear it again. She found herself wishing she could touch him and her heart flipped over when, one day, he took her hand and gently squeezed it as he handed her a blanket for the orphans.

 

It was a particularly sunny day when Shella was commissioned to run some papers into the town for Sister Neal, who was busy studying for her septas’ exams. She rounded a corner and, to her very great surprise, nearly collided with Sam. He was just as surprised and asked what she was doing near his home. " _Your_  home?"

 

"Yes, well, my uncle's home, but I live here, too. Would you like to come in? If it wouldn't delay you . . . ?"

 

"Where is your family?"

 

"At the stall."

 

The house was not large but it was clean and airy and had the touches of being inhabited by people who liked living there. As Shella turned to comment on the prettiness of the room, Sam leaned down and kissed her slowly. Her soul felt made of music. If she ever believed in the gods' power, she believed in it then. Shella felt love, actual love, and was overwhelmed by it. Neither of them spoke but somehow found Sam's bed in silent accord. He was careful. And thoughtful. And diligent in seeing to her pleasure before succumbing to his own. Afterwards, as they lay in bed, Shella glanced around the simple room and found she liked it very much. She wouldn't mind it being hers. She would leave the motherhouse and live here with Sam as his wife, Mother Stoutwall be damned. Sam and his family were respectable people so her father could have no objection.

 

As these pleasant plans swirled around in her mind, Sam sat up and took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry," he murmured.

 

"Whatever for?"

 

"You're a septa. I shouldn't have . . . I knew it was wrong but . . . you're so pretty and . . . and . . ."

 

"No. No," Shella said in a manner meant to be soothing. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

 

"Yes there is. You're a septa. A  _septa_. And I defiled you!"

 

"What? No!"

 

Sam hung his head and couldn't look at her.

 

"I'm not a septa. Just a sister. And not by choice."

 

"Not by choice? It's the gods' choice and now I've interfered with the gods' will. I kept telling myself to stop going by the market. To stop seeing you. Talking to you. But I didn't want to. And now my weakness has caused -" he gestured vaguely at the bed on which they lay - "this!"

 

Shella made a last grab for the future that seemed so much better than the one for which she was destined. "I don't have to be a septa . . ."

 

Sam's face screwed up. "But you do. It's bad enough I've done what I've done but to lure you away from the Faith as well?" He looked at her, anguished. "Please forgive me."

 

Shella's throat was closing up. "I wanted this as much as you did."

 

"How could a decent sister want what I've done? Please. Don't spare my feelings. You have every right to be angry. I will make whatever reparations -"

 

"No, you will not," Shella said, getting up. "I was just a girl before I became a sister just as you were boy before you became a fishmonger. And now I'm a woman and you're a man and that's all it is. Sometimes you take the only path in front of you."

 

Sam shook his head. "I wish I'd known you as a girl but you're a septa, or will be one, and I can't come between a septa and the gods. It's not right. My family would be furious."

 

Shella knew she had to leave soon or else she would burst into tears. "I forgive you," she said. "And you should forgive yourself."

 

Sam gave her a doubtful look. She looked at him with regret and dressed and fled. When she returned to the motherhouse, she couldn't bear the company of anyone else. She hid where no one would think to look for her - in the library. The routine ground on and she sought out the activities that would allow her to be alone, preferably laundry so she could pretend her tears were sweat from the steam. It all seemed hopeless.

 

Weeks later Sam passed by with an armful of fish when she and the sisters were walking to the market and the surprise was stark on his face. That he avoided her usual locations was no shock but the embarrassment he clearly felt at seeing her made Shella feel that, once again, a future she might have chosen for herself had been ripped away. She hated the idea of becoming a septa even more now. She didn't want to  _be_  a septa. She didn't  _feel_  like a septa. The Seven were distant acquaintances to her and she didn't wish to know them better. She felt like an impostor. Worse, she was seen only as a sister and nothing else. She wasn't supposed to be anything but prim and proper and celibate and old and shriveled and boring and dull and at peace with all that. All she wanted was a comfortable life as the wife of a man who could afford to keep her well. Now she was just as anonymous as any cow in a field. Undistinguished. Interchangeable. Her head-dress threatened to choke her every day. She longed to rip it off and cast it aside. She'd trade this dreadful respect her father had purchased for her in a heartbeat if she could just be special to  _someone_.

 

Things did not improve when Sister Mallin became Septa Mallin and her request to move to a lower terrace was denied. Shella felt certain Septa Mallin was spying on her for the head mother. Things degenerated further when Sister Greenleaf was found to be with child and sent away, disgrace lapping at her insouciant heels. Scrutiny intensified on Shella, who professed shock at her sister's wayward behavior though she knew good and well that Agnes had been having a regular thing with a tradesman in town. The head mother was not fooled, however, but, having received another generous donation from Shella's father, could not simply turn her out without hard evidence. Instead, she devised what would be a more fitting punishment.

 

_Please, not a silent sister. Don't make me a silent sister. Not that. Anything but that._ Never had Shella Mordane prayed so diligently or sincerely but she knew the head mother would not spare her. It was just the degree of intolerance that was to be determined.

 

When, at last, she was summoned to the wretched woman's chambers, Shella kept her expression neutral and her spine straight. She could not help but recall that final meeting with her father two years prior. She had not seen him since. The one time he was going to visit, he'd become ill and had to postpone.  _It's just as well_ , she thought.  _I would not want him to see me now._

 

"Sister Mordane, do not think for one instant that I believe your actions have been as innocent as you claim. Flirting with men in the village, how dare you? Your behavior invites mockery and derision of this sept. Your flagrance casts doubt on the Faith itself! I can see now that you must be a woman of the world."

 

Shella said not a word. Even the largest wave couldn't pummel you if you simply ducked and let it pass over, or so one of the sailors had told her.

 

"A man from the village has asked for my help. He is often away from home and his wife could use assistance with their children. He is too poor to pay us much but they are a family of good character and in service to Lord Mallister. You will go to this family and help their girls grow into young women of faith. I agreed only on the condition that they were satisfied with your guidance of their children. If they are not, well, there are other roads to penitence."

 

_Children?_  Had her lips not been so thin as to be almost nonexistent, Shella might have curled hers in distaste. What were other people's children to her? This was going to be worse than silently disemboweling corpses.  _Stranger spare me . . ._

 


	3. The Smith I

 "Janna! Stazia! Please be  _quiet_!" Shella's nerves were fraying faster than her hem, which she'd never find time to stitch if the two little girls in her care would not sit still. She said a quick prayer to the gods, thanking them for blessing the Brownstones with two daughters only. At four and six, they had more energy than Shella thought existed in all the world. She'd been sent to the Brownstones as septa but she felt more like a maid.

 

Aniya Brownstone, the girls' mother, was even more frazzled than Sister Shella felt. Her husband, Alec, was often away from home and, when he returned, seemed to do little more than leave his wife with another baby in her belly. Thus far, there were three boys, aged nine, seven, and one. With the green pallor Aniya's face had most days, Shella didn't doubt that another was on the way. Had Aniya been a less amiable woman, Shella might have begrudged her her husband's attentions. As it was, she was almost too tired to care.

 

She caught six-year-old Janna by the hand and marched her into the small house. Her playmate gone, Stazia followed. Shella gave broth to both and then scrubbed them clean in the bath. At long last, the girls settled down. Shella sang them songs and then watched them for a few moments as they slept. They looked almost sweet in their matching dressing gowns, soft curls spilling over their foreheads as they drew in slow, even breaths. With a weariness that made her feel well past her 18 years, Shella pushed out of her chair and gathered her belongings.

 

She did not stay with the Brownstones. Mother Stoutwall wouldn't hear of it. Instead, Shella was up with the dawn and walking down the hill, threading her way through the streets on the route out of town. There she would spend all day keeping the girls busy and trying and failing to instill some sort of order before she'd drag herself back through town and up the hill only to eventually collapse in her bed, weary to her bones. Not that this relieved her of her other duties. No. She was still required to dedicate time to house service and continued her rotation through the garden, laundry, kitchen, sept, and every other place on the grounds. Evening prayer lessons and services went on as before. Shella gave herself credit for staying awake through it and was satisfied that was enough.

 

Between being ill and corralling her boys, Aniya did not pay much attention to Shella. "Mind the septa," she'd say. Shella had told her more than once that she wasn't yet a septa but either Aniya didn't hear over the constant ruckus or else she didn't care. Soon the children were calling her "Septa Mordane." Shella thought it sounded dingy. She felt dingy. And hopeless. It gave her a pang when she wondered if her father felt the same way about her. When she could take the noise no longer, Shella would gather the girls and take them "into town." She thought maybe their rambunctiousness was due in part to overexposure to their brothers. "Now, girls, we are going to take a walk along the water. You will behave yourselves." Holding their hands, Shella steered them into Seagard proper and let them marvel over the sights. It struck her how limited their experience was, especially in contrast with her own, which was distinctly untraveled. Janna and Stazia ran wild along the docks and pressed their faces against every storefront window. Shella sat on a bench and let them explore. It wasn’t educational but at least it was a change. As a rule, she avoided such trips when sisters from the motherhouse would be collecting donations or selling soup or otherwise encouraging Seagard’s denizens to strive forward for one more day but her weariness must have caught up with her for one day she spied some of the godsworn ladies coming her way.

 

"Girls!" she called. "Girls! Come here, please. You must be on your best behavior." She pulled out a handkerchief, licked it, and wiped a smudge from Janna's face. The girl squirmed away in disgust. "Now, please, behave as young ladies must."

 

"How's that?" Stazia asked.

 

Shella drew back in surprise. Had they really absorbed nothing? She supposed she'd have to be a little more specific. "Well, young ladies politely greet others they know. They . . ." Shella dredged her mind for ideas. She knew whatever was seen would be reported back to Mother Stoutwall. She was running out of time. "See the women coming along the dock? They're my sisters at the motherhouse," Shella explained, forcing her voice to be even. "When we meet them, you may say hello."

 

Soon the others approached and Janna and Stazia were practically wiggling with the opportunity to talk to them.

 

"Are these the young ladies you're guiding, Sister Shella?" Septa Gale asked, smiling at the girls and reaching out to touch Stazia's cheek.

 

"Why are you calling her Sister Shella?" Stazia asked. "Her name is Septa Mordane."

 

Shella's stomach fell. "Their mother insists on calling me Septa Mordane."

 

Septa Gale smiled indulgently but Septa Mallin pursed her lips.

 

Shella made the introductions.

 

"Hello," Janna said, earning herself a pleased nod from Shella.

 

"Why aren't you dressed like Septa Mordane?" Stazia wanted to know, eyeing Septa Gale's more elaborate dress.

 

"Septa Gale has completed her studies and service. She has earned the  _privilege_ of wearing a septa's garb," said Septa Mallin.

 

Stazia stared up at her, frowning. Shella prayed she'd remain silent but knew better. "What do you mean?"

 

To Shella's profound relief, Septa Gale briefly explained what was required to become a septa while Septa Mallin muttered, "How long has it been now?" under her breath to Shella. Shella wasn't sure if she was referring to the length of her service to the Brownstones or her tenure as a sister. Either way, it wasn't a compliment.

 

Shella glanced at the girls. They weren't bad girls, not really. They just needed direction. Which is what she was supposed to be providing but hadn't. She wanted away from the sensation. "We mustn't keep the septas, girls."

 

When the others continued on their way, Shella felt a pat on her arm.

 

"May we visit the motherhouse one day, please?" Janna asked.

 

"Janna, dear, the motherhouse's sept isn't open to the public," Shella said with relief. She didn't need the girls' lack of religious knowledge on full display.

 

“What did that lady mean when she said you’re not a septa?” asked Stazia.

 

Shella sighed. “You have to pass a test to become a septa. I haven’t taken it yet.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s only offered once a year. I’ll take it next year.” It struck Shella that she spoke with certainty. Had she given up her thoughts of escape or had she just been too tired to act on them?

 

*

 

Before she knew it, a year had passed. Shella sat the next septas’ exam. She and the other novice sisters were in the dining hall, large gaps between them at the long trestle tables. At the front of the room were Mother Stoutwall, Septa Whiting, and Septa Tilney.

 

“The examination will last two hours,” Mother Stoutwall intoned in her superior way. “You must answer every question to hope to earn full marks. The quality of your responses will be judged by a panel of three septas, one white, one blue, one brown, in Oldtown. Your results will be made available to me before the moon turns. I expect each of you will do credit to our motherhouse.” Shella felt the old hag’s glare but kept her head down. “Septa Whiting, please distribute the questions. You will not turn over the examination until instructed to do so.”

 

The septa shuffled up and down the aisles fluttering crisp papers down next to each sister. Shella was relieved that the exam was only two pages long and wondered why she’d been given so many pages to use in response. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

 

Once Septa Whiting returned to the front of the room, Mother Stoutwall took up a great hourglass. “You may begin . . . now!”

 

Shella flipped over the papers. The script was tiny.

 

_Name the seven aspects of the Faith._

 

Ha! She knew that one! Shella dashed off ‘Father, Mother, Maiden, Warrior, Smith, Crone, and Stranger.’

 

_True or False: During a wedding ceremony, the couple stands between the altars of the Maiden and Mother._

 

Shella scribbled “false” and moved on.

 

_Name the first High Septon and the years of his holy reign._

 

Shella frowned. She’d come back to that one.

 

_Provide the locations of the primary motherhouses in Westeros._

 

Hmm. She wrote “Seagard, Oldtown,” and then drew a blank. King’s Landing? For some reason that seemed wrong. Maybe she should just name some of the larger cities in Westeros. She left herself space and went on to the next question.

 

_Describe the faith’s role in trials by combat and provide examples._

 

Ugh. She didn’t feel like getting into that. She skimmed ahead to pick out the easy questions so she could concentrate on the more difficult ones later.

 

_Give a brief history of the Sept of Baelor._

 

_Discuss the ways in which the Faith of the Seven differs from belief in the old gods and belief in the Drowned God._

 

_Multiple choice: The Faith was brought to Westeros when:_

  1. _The Andals invaded from Essos_
  2. _The Children of the Forest signed a pact with the First Men_
  3. _The Targaryens invaded Westeros_



 

_Compare and contrast Begging Brothers, Contemplative/Brown Brothers, and the Faith Militant and give historical examples of leadership for each._

 

_Describe in detail the differences between and the appropriate uses of The Seven-Pointed Star and The Book of Holy Prayer._

 

Shella frowned. The questions only got more difficult from there and delved deeper and deeper into the sacred texts. Shella dashed off half-answers to everything that sounded remotely familiar and feverishly glanced at the hourglass. She went back to the first page of questions and sought any she might have missed. She had to answer all the questions and didn’t want to fail the exam simply because she had missed something. In the end, she tried to bluff her way past several questions and gave a few answers she was certain were wrong. She prayed to the Smith that it was enough. She rolled her papers, sealed them with wax for delivery to Oldtown, and resumed her duties.

 

*

 

Shella didn’t spend much time thinking about how she’d done. Aniya had given birth to another girl and, though Katta was just a few months old and not yet in Shella’s care, there was absolutely no peace at the Brownstone home. It thus came as a great surprise when Aniya announced she could no longer abide being indoors, shooed the boys off to a neighbor, and announced she would join Shella and the girls on their trip into town.

 

Shella took the girls aside and impressed upon them the importance of being on their best behavior and helping their mother and, to her relief, they complied, going so far as to point out the sights to their mother like she was new in town. Aniya had taken it into her head that she wanted some new fabric so they went into this shop and that one rather aimlessly, Aniya clearly just enjoying the break in routine.

 

“Look, mama!” Stazia cried, pointing at two women a ways down the wharf. Then she and Janna were off at a run. Shella called after them but her voice was swallowed up by the ever-present pounding of the surf.

 

The girls bounced up and down and grabbed hold of the ladies’ hands and dragged them back toward their mother and Shella. Aniya introduced Shella to her acquaintances, the wives of some men known to her husband, and one said, “Oh, you keep a septa now, do you?”

 

“Of course,” Aniya replied easily, moving Katta from her arm to her shoulder and patting her back with a warm maternal smile. “Septa Mordane has been with us for quite some time now. Alec and I had always planned that the girls should be brought up well and now, with his service to Lord Mallister . . .”

 

Shella stopped listening and instead took the hands of Janna and Stazia to steady herself. She knew the sound of jealousy when she heard it. It had not occurred to her before then that she herself could be considered a symbol of status, that her meager service was perceived to have value. When she thought of gently bred young ladies, she did not think of Janna and Stazia with their smudged faces and boisterous energy. She imagined steely poise and crisp manners brought forth by a stern, unapologetic, and highly religious much, much older septa. She’d not had one herself so she couldn’t say for sure but that seemed the likely way of it. She was only certain that she’d never taken her power (it surprised her to even think of it as power!) seriously. It made her feel a little squirmy inside. Had she been squandering an opportunity? Was there possibly more to this septa business than she’d originally thought? She thought back on the exam. She hadn’t studied at all. Maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe they graded on a curve. Maybe it was just a ruse and everyone passed no matter what. Who ever heard of someone who’d gone to a septry and not become a septa? These thoughts sifted down from Shella’s head past her heart and settled uneasily in her belly. She might just become a septa in spite of herself.

 

*

 

The moon turned and she was summoned to Mother Stoutwall’s chambers. They were as cheerless as Shella expected them to be. Hard furniture. No plants or flowers. Unsmiling Seven looking down from the stark paintings on the walls.  _Secret stash of wine in the kitchen . . . You’re not fooling me._

 

Shella stood in front of the head mother’s desk and waited like she had no wish to be elsewhere. Eventually, the old woman looked up.

 

“You failed.”

 

Despite herself, Shella’s jaw dropped open and she felt as though she should explain or make some excuse or ask how this most unexpected turn of events could possibly be. Perhaps there was a mix-up in Oldtown or maybe her meaning hadn’t been fully understood or . . .

 

“Miserably.”

 

“I . . .”

 

“You . . .” Mother Stoutwall looked down her nose at Shella, which was quite a feat given that she was seated and Shella was standing.

 

Shella shut her mouth and waited. There was nothing to be gained by her speaking.

 

“You have not applied yourself.”

 

The head mother shuffled around some papers on her desk before selecting one and standing. She cleared her throat and read in a withering tone, “Penitence may reasonably be achieved through prayer, either kneeling in front of one of the statues of the Seven or while seated in a sept. Clasping your hands and looking down helps.”

 

To Shella’s horror, she recognized that as being one of the answers she’d given on the septas’ exam.

 

“I’ve been very busy with the Brownstone girls. I was more active with my volunteer service before then.” She cringed. It was her alleged antics during volunteer service that had saddled her with the Brownstone girls in the first place. Shella’s mind scrambled for a better example of her . . . what? Improvement? The fact that she was learning something which held no interest for her? “I have not missed any of my duties or any services.”

 

Mother Stoutwall peered at her. “I will not deny that the reports from the Brownstones have been favorable but I do wonder what you’ve been teaching their daughters.”

 

“The womanly arts,” Shella answered feebly.

 

“You are to guide them to be young women of  _faith_ , not frivolity.”

 

“I . . . will work harder,” Shella said, hoping that would be an end of it.

 

The head mother fixed her with a stern look and then nodded and resumed her seat. Just as Shella reached the door, she added, “Send your father my regards.”

 

*

 

Shella was fairly true to her word. She let it be known she was borrowing books from the motherhouse’s library so she could read religious stories to her charges. Each girl would tuck herself under Shella’s arm and Stazia would surreptitiously suck her thumb while Janna would oooh and ahhh over the pictures. Shella wished she could read them more exciting things than stories of the Faith but they seemed to like them well enough and, though the thought rather pained her, the children’s stories were educational for her as well.

 

The girls liked to dress up and Shella taught them to sew. Once the girls had fancy "gowns" to wear, which were nothing more than embroidered aprons, Shella taught them to curtsy and dance and smile demurely. When they walked through town, Shella explained each profession and, more quietly, where it fell in the social hierarchy. She made a game of introductions and the girls laughed and laughed as they pretended to greet their imaginary guests. Shella would say, “The queen!” and the girls would hurry to curtsy and say, “Your grace.” She would say, “A knight!” and the girls would nod and say, “Good day,  _ser_.”

 

And so on it went. The girls slowly outgrew their persistent effervescence and Katta was more serious by nature so they attended their lessons fairly well and Shella’s frustrations ebbed somewhat. She still worked from morning until dusk but she didn’t fight it all so much. She was comfortable, she realized. Perhaps not as happy or entertained as she might once have wished for but she was well fed, had befriended some other sisters, and derived some satisfaction from seeing Janna, Stazia, and Katta remember and apply what she taught them.

 

Shella started starching her skirts; the swish gave her an air of authority that she liked. And she made a chiffon headdress, too. The softer fabric was more flattering than the stiffer sackcloth and felt better, too.

 

It was during this time that her father came to visit. Shella was stunned to see an old man step down from his cart. His hair was now fully gray and he moved with more stiffness and care. She wondered if she’d aged as much as he had, though he claimed she looked lovely and said he was very happy to find her in such obvious health.

 

The head mother gave Shella three days away from her duties to spend with her father. It was awkward at first. They were both different people. He told her of all the improvements to their land and how well Mychael was running everything. Shella asked after some of her old friends and was not surprised to learn they were all married with children. Paul was now running the inn. The town had grown somewhat and her father shared with her all the neighborhood details that no longer had any meaning for her.

 

With Aniya’s permission, she brought her father to meet the Brownstones. His obvious delight with the children gave her a pang. He’d pulled piece after piece of candy out of his pockets for each of them and lavished compliments on Aniya and her children.

 

Later, as they ate at the inn where her father had taken a room, he told her, “I am very pleased, Shella, very pleased indeed. You have done fine work here. I had my doubts, of course. Not that I didn’t think you could do well, don’t misunderstand, but I doubted myself and wondered if I was making the right choice for you.” He smiled at her, though he still seemed unsure.

 

“I failed the septa’s exam.” Her 16-year-old self might as well have said it and she regretted it immediately.

 

Her father exhaled and tilted his head to the side. “You’ll pass next time. The work you’ve done for that family is far more important than memorizing dates and deeds.”

 

“Don’t let Mother Stoutwall hear you say that.”

 

“You’ve made the lives of those girls better. I’m certain their mother appreciates everything you’ve done for them.”

 

Shella looked down. He was probably right but that didn’t stop her from wanting to do something for herself. Her old need for excitement started to rouse. She tamped it down and limited her response to a civil, “I’m glad you’re proud of me, papa.”

 

“I am. You’ve become a responsible, respectable woman.”

 

Shella tried not to frown. He might as well have said, “I’m pleased you’ve been stripped of your verve and pleasure in life. Your bland sedateness suits me better than your scandalous happiness.”

 

*

 

In later years, she was glad her father had told her he was proud of her. He died within weeks of his return home. The young man sent to dispatch the news to her got hopelessly turned around in a patch of fog and, as such, she was unable to return home for the funeral. This sat ill with her indeed and, in her more bitter moments, she was sure the upstart Mychael had purposely kept her at bay – probably so he could appraise the value of her father’s furniture at his leisure. Shella was slightly mollified when Mychael came to Seagard himself to bring her the money her father had set aside for her. He seemed genuinely embarrassed that she’d been unable to return home for the burial and spoke with respect and grief over her father’s memory.

 

“And what of the house and property?” Shella had to ask.

 

Mychael sighed. “It is much to maintain. But I do enjoy it,” he hastened to add.

 

Shella stared at him for a minute before deciding that he probably meant it. And, if he did enjoy it, so be it, for she knew she would not.

 

“Your father mentioned you’re as busy as the Smith with your duties and what a blessing you are to the children in your care.” Mychael continued with a smile. “My children are older now but we would be very pleased to have you visit.”

 

Shella thanked him but she knew she would never go. That was all behind her now. The question was, what was ahead?


	4. The Smith II

Five years later, Aniya died in childbed and Alec scattered his children amongst various relatives and establishments. Katta held tight to Shella’s hand as tears flooded her cheeks. The only thing she would say was, “Mama!” and then cry anew. Stazia threw her arms around Shella and wept. They'd been in each other's company near daily for twelve years and Shella, until that moment, had not realized the level of the young girl's attachment. Janna, too, teared up and told Shella she would miss her. Shella’s heart clenched. It struck her that she would not be around to see them all grown up. Janna and Stazia were now young ladies and Shella would miss out on their being courted and married and it pained her to know she would not be part of the exciting times ahead.

 

"Sister, I know you grieve with me, and I regret that I cannot keep you on. The girls need a mother as well as a septa and I'm afraid you cannot do both."

 

Shella nodded and remained silent. She wondered if it was time to leave the motherhouse. She had still not passed the septas’ exam, despite taking it two more times. As she pondered what kind of a living she could make, Alec continued.

 

"I have asked Lord Mallister to help place you."

 

Shella drew in her breath.

 

"Maybe I should have consulted the head mother . . ." He looked down, unsure. Then, seeming to reach the conclusion that his lord took precedence over his faith, he went on. "He has been unable to do so but, very generously, has agreed to take you into his household -"

 

"But Lord Mallister only has a son." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.  _Why are you mentioning that, you fool? A household with only one child sounds like the seventh heaven._

 

"That is so but there are young ladies at the keep . . ." Alec hesitated, seeming to think that Shella believed the assignment an insult.

 

"Of course. I only meant, I mean to say, I was surprised by such a kind gesture."

 

Alec smiled. "I told him you were gracious." Then his smile faltered. "But he would prefer it if you would complete your septa's training," he added a bit sheepishly.

 

Shella forced herself to smile. "Of course, Ser Alec."

 

*

 

Shella studied like her life depended on it. Her full-time presence at the motherhouse only resulted in scrutiny from Mother Stoutwall and if there was one thing that didn’t flatter Shella, it was scrutiny. Thank the Smith, the next exam was only a moon’s turn away. She knew her sudden efforts were noticed and chuckled over by her sisters but she didn’t care. She asked questions of them constantly. What had been asked on the last exam? Were previous tests ever reused? What had their answers been to the open-ended questions?

 

When the day of the examination finally came, Shella felt like her head might explode and shower the room with little bits of useless information before she had a chance to drain it all onto her paper. As it was, her head did not explode and she actually found some of the questions easy. When Mother Stoutwall was forced to tell her that she had, in fact, passed and was now fully qualified to be a septa, Shella felt an odd sense of pride. Sure, it had taken her more than three times the normal length of time to achieve septahood but what did that matter now? She’d earned the title and the fancier outfits and whatever respect people felt she was due now that she was godsworn.

 

*

 

Ser Jason Mallister was tall and handsome and, good man that he was, he arranged Shella's escape from the motherhouse and there wasn't a single thing Mother Stoutwall could do about it. Not that she'd wanted to. Shella wasn't exactly Septa Mallin or the Maidens when it came to rigor or enthusiasm but she felt certain the head mother enjoyed making her life a misery and would not want her loose in the world reflecting the motherhouse.

 

Be that as it may, it was with no little pride that Shella let it be known that she'd been specially selected for service within the Mallister household. She enjoyed the look of envy on a few of the younger sisters’ faces and ignored the eye rolls of the few sisters her own age who she presumed were jealous. Now that change had been forced upon her, it suddenly felt right. It was time for her to go.

 

* 

 

Shella had seen the seat of the Mallister family, of course, but she'd never paid it much attention. It had nothing to do with her, after all, and it was a long walk from the motherhouse. The majesty of it up close, though, was a test of her nonchalance. While Septa Fleming gave her an overview of the family (Ser Jason and his son, Patrek, about age 8, easy enough to remember), Shella tried not to gape. The furniture was exquisitely wrought. The servants' uniforms were crisply pressed and made of fabric of a respectable heft. There was actual artwork in the main gallery and silken tapestries hanging in the dining hall. Shella was overwhelmed by the thought of being in the presence of such luxury on a daily basis. It made her proud. None of it was hers but she could feel the might and influence behind it. To say she was part of House Mallister of Seagard . . . it shamed her previous dream of marrying Paul and being the lady of a dinky inn in the middle of nowhere. Whatever had she been thinking? She wondered at her naiveté but rapidly excused her own youthful innocence. She was now a woman of 30 years and would be comfortably ensconced within the fine walls of the densely populated castle.

 

Then she realized she hadn't been listening as Septa Fleming explained her role. She had to ask her to repeat the particulars. There were twenty-five to thirty septas responsible for maintaining the sept and leading services and doing a good portion of the sewing along with the maids. Ser Jason’s bannermen had numerous young ladies within their families and the septas were expected to escort them as needed, instruct their sewing, music, art, and behavior, and, of course, provide religious direction.

 

Shella and the other septas had nothing to do with young Patrek, except to dote on him. He'd tear through the keep with his friends, especially Marq Piper and Edmure Tully. They reminded Shella of the Brownstone boys, which was not in their favor. The main difference was that, as young lords, she had to smile and pretend to be charmed by their boisterous energy. At least, in a keep the size of the Mallisters', there were plenty of places for them to run so they weren't under foot long. It was hard for her to imagine these boys leading the realm one day. She'd expected them to be somehow different than other children. More reserved or austere. Apart from their more expensive clothing and better diet, they weren't.

 

Those early months flew by. Shella's status as the newest septa seemed to excuse her from real responsibility for quite a while and Shella certainly didn't hurry herself to get up to speed. She did whatever was asked of her but focused her attention on getting to know people rather than on completing tasks. Her fellow septas were good women and, while she sensed that she was not impressing anyone, neither was she displeasing anyone enough to earn negative commentary. The young ladies were actual young ladies and not children and that was a relief. They knew how to behave, they knew how to sew, and several of them were being courted and Shella loved hearing all the details. This often occurred during the sewing circle. Sewing soon became Shella's favorite time of day. She sewed a little and talked a lot. At first she mainly asked questions to become better acquainted with the families within the keep but that naturally led to gossip (or, as her chattier sisters called it, background). Gossip itself was frowned upon but the retelling of local history was not, so long as unkind comments were not part of the telling. The stories varied depending on who was in the room but soon Shella had a feeling for where the friendships and tensions and ambitions lay. The septas were well respected within the Mallister household, not just because they were godsworn but because they took care to comport themselves well. They seemed to Shella to feel as though they were responsible in part for maintaining the family's reputation. "Above the rest!" Septa Fleming told her. It had taken Shella a moment to realize those must be the house words. 

 

A more scrupulous septa might have taken those words as inspiration, a lesser one as a warning. Shella had no attachment to them either way. Her relative anonymity and unrestricted freedom within the keep suited her just fine. More was expected of the head septa, of course, and those who put themselves forward during services or for special duties but Shella was content to do what she was asked, which was mainly to be physically present when one of the young ladies needed to go somewhere. The young ladies. Shella had to laugh at that. They were only a scant few years younger than herself after all. The truth that it was more than a few years might have depressed her had she not become acquainted with a young knight named Harrick. His blue eyes and flirtatious nature quickly wore down any uneasiness Shella might have felt about being pursued by him. He was barely hesitant in approaching her but, once she made a saucy comment back, he didn't dissemble. Shella's heart fluttered every time she saw him.

 

"You're unusually pretty for a septa."

 

Shella ignored the implication that most septas were ugly because he clearly thought she wasn't one of those unfortunate souls. "I thank you, ser."

 

He favored her with a full grin. "What's your name?"

 

"Septa Mordane."

 

"No. We don't have to be so formal, do we? What's your first name?"

 

"Shella."

 

"Shella." He rolled the name over his tongue. "That's pretty. I'm Harrick."

 

"A pleasure, ser."

 

He grinned at her again. "Not ser.  _Harrick_."

 

"Harrick," she repeated, deciding it was a good, strong name. From then on, that's what she called him and, to her delight, he called her Shella and never 'septa.' And so it began. Shella felt pursued in a way she never had. Harrick had a ready laugh and an easygoing nature. He wasn't all bound up by the fact that she was sworn to the gods and he was sworn to Lord Mallister. Shella took the fact that he never mentioned it as her cue to not worry about it herself. If he wasn't bothered by her being a septa, why should she be? If he wasn't worried about their being caught, why should she be? If he wasn't worried about his own reputation or soul, why should she be? She simply thanked the gods for him and for her good fortune.

 

Yet not all of her company was swooningly masculine. She became friendly with a few of the other septas and was invited to their card games. Proceeds went to charity but Shella still enjoyed the laughter and camaraderie of those evenings. At first Shella wasn't sure if she fit in. They were so _nice_  and Shella, well, she knew her younger years were nothing to brag about. One of them, Septa Hundley, had known Alec Brownstown and was complimentary of Shella's work with his daughters. Shella demurred but the other women seemed to agree that dealing with young children was difficult work. "That must be why we don't have any!" Septa Maynard joked. 

 

"But there _are_ very young girls here . . ." Shella said.

 

"Oh, yes," answered Septa Rose, "but thank the gods they have mothers. With girls under the age of 8, we generally just read them stories and teach them simple prayers."

 

"What about Lord Patrek?"

 

The other septas appeared confused. "What about Lord Patrek?"

 

"Who sees to his religious upbringing?" She wondered if there might be an opportunity for favor by somehow influencing one of the future primary nobles of the Riverlands. Lord Patrek was Lord Mallister's only son and heir and there were so many septas about and the Faith _was_  the primary religion in this part of the world. 

 

"His tutors," said Septa Rose.

 

"He's certainly not going to be instructed in the womanly arts," laughed Septa Hundley.

 

Shella laughed, too. "No, I suppose not," she replied but for some reason she felt discontented. Later that night, after much tossing and turning, it came to her: this was not a household in which she could shine. With the Brownstones, she was the only septa, a novelty, a sign of their up-and-comingness. She was the standard, however tarnished she knew herself to be, and they hadn't known to expect anything different. Here, her only acclaim could come from being a truly stellar septa and Shella knew she didn't have that in her, either in her head or in her heart. It was disappointing to realize that there was a limit to what she could attain. Comfort, yes. Singularity, no.

 

*

 

Perhaps it was this sense of disappointment that induced Shella to allow Harrick into her chambers. Or maybe it was that he saw her as a woman and not a redundant septa. Or maybe it was just his irresistible smile. She ignored his stated preference for older women and instead preferred to think he meant "worldly and refined." The intermittent nature of their rendezvous only made them more exciting. He did not talk to her about sin or guilt or his nonexistent family members. He thrilled her with tales of jousts and hunts and hawking. He shocked her with the things the knights would say and do when no ladies were present. He made her laugh over court gossip. He somehow had a steady supply of moontea. He ignored her completely on the few occasions they met in the course of castle life. Shella had never been happier. She didn't think ahead or question his motives or start planning their wedding. She simply enjoyed him, his body, his company, his laugh, his wicked smile, his time, and his attention. Whereas Shella had often dreamed of fleeing the motherhouse or abandoning the Blackstones, she felt agreeably distracted by Harrick. When the ladies in the sewing circle chose to sing, she would hum along and let her mind wander along the planes of Harrick's lean, muscular body. If Shella had had the strength, she might have thrown him over her shoulder and run away with him. 

 

About a year after Shella joined the household, one of Ser Jason's bannermen moved closer to Seagard and his daughter, Rachyl, became another friend of Shella's. She was a naturally shy girl of about sixteen with thick brown hair and warm brown eyes. She found it difficult to join in the conversation so Shella would sit to the side with her and they'd talk about Seagard, the keep and its inhabitants, and the weather. Rachyl seemed to take Shella's word as gospel and Shella wondered if this was what it was like to have a younger sister.

 

Soon they started spending time together outside of the sewing circle. They'd have tea or wander the market or pass by the yard and watch the knights and the men-at-arms practice, Shella keeping an eye on Harrick from the corner of her eye.

 

*

 

Shella's life settled into a comfortable routine: light septa's duties, cards with her friends, Harrick when he was able to get away, Rachyl when he wasn't.

 

One day, after an unexpected but enthusiastic romp with Harrick, Shella floated into the sewing room. Rachyl caught her eye and Shella moved to sit next to her. "You look like the cat who's gotten into the cream," Shella observed, thinking she looked the same way.

 

"I have a secret," Rachyl gushed.

 

Shella raised her eyebrows in surprise. She knew Rachyl wanted to tell her so she didn't waste her breath asking.

 

"Septa Mordane, if I tell you, do you promise not to tell a single other soul?"

 

"May I become a silent sister," Shella said.

 

"My father has made me a match!"

 

Shella beamed. "How wonderful!"

 

Rachyl demurred. "I didn't want to say anything until it was certain. My father will make an announcement soon but I wanted to tell  _someone_! And I know, as a septa, that I can trust your discretion."

 

"Of course you can!" Shella hugged her, genuinely pleased for her friend. "Who is the lucky man?"

 

"Harrick! You might know him. We've seen him in the yard –”

 

Shella gasped in spite of herself and blurted out, "No!"

 

Rachyl drew back, stung.

 

Shella hurried on. "I mean to say, he's not good enough for you. Not nearly. Why, he's . . . he's . . . not to be trusted!" She was so shocked, it was all she could do not to throw down her sewing, stamp her foot, and curse his name in the most unladylike terms. Then she wanted to run him through with a lance. How  _could_  he?? Why, just an hour ago they . . .

 

"Septa!" Rachyl cried.

 

With a momentous effort, Shella reigned herself in. "Erik?" she sputtered. "Erik who was lately a squire for . . . oh, what's his name?" She looked around as though searching for the lost bit of trivia but she had to look away lest Rachyl see the tears in her eyes.

 

Rachyl looked at her, confused. " _Harrick_ , septa, not Erik!"

 

Shella feigned shock and then bent over and laughed and laughed and forced herself to laugh some more as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

 

Rachyl laughed, too, but looked at Shella with uncertainty.

 

"I _am_ sorry," Shella said. "Oh, what a thing to say. Erik! Of course not. Not for you! Now tell me all about your plans."

 

Rachyl was only too happy to oblige and Shella had no choice but to sit and listen to the wedding details of her lover.

 

She glared at Harrick the next time she saw him in the hall. She could tell by his expression that he was surprised she knew already. He made no effort to talk to her then and did not return to her chambers. To his credit, Shella supposed, he did not meddle with her after his match to Rachyl was made public. Listening to his bethrothed talk about her wedding plans flayed Shella over and over but such was her lot as a septa. Marriage was not for her. She could do nothing but stand aside and smile as other, luckier women went off to their sparkling sexual futures. It threw her into a deep, dark funk. Though she truly liked Rachyl, she started to avoid her. It was just too painful and Shella feared she'd be unable to resist making some petty comment that would expose her true feelings on the topic of the groom.

 

Instead, she embroidered a verse on fidelity from The Seven-Pointed Star, framed it, and gave it to Rachyl as a wedding gift. Rachyl hugged her, said she loved it, and would be pleased to display it in her new home. Shella hoped Harrick saw it every day for the rest of his life and thanked the Father that they would not be living in the keep. It was a blessed relief when, after the wedding, Rachyl gravitated more toward the company of other married women and their association dwindled.

 

*

 

Shella might have embroidered something harsher had she known then that Harrick would be her last lover. When she thought she might go mad with frustration, she sought ways to keep herself busy. It was not as though she could leave for something better, after all, and, really, she didn't want to. For once, she was glad for the shelter of her anonymity. Her moodiness would not have recommended her to anyone.

 

As it turned out, Septa Maynard was about to start a series of etiquette lessons for the younger girls. Over cards one night, Shella asked if she might be of assistance. "You know I can't bear to be idle," she concluded. Septa Maynard smiled as though Shella had made a joke but accepted her help with appreciation and they soon met to detail what would be taught. Conversation. Identification of rank. Manner of address. Curtsying in a variety of settings to a variety of people. Formal dinner service. Shella felt her cheeks go pink more than once as her friend illuminated yet another detail of gracious living that was unknown to her. Septa Maynard insisted on each girl knowing the words and sigils of each of the great houses, despite this material already being covered by their tutors. Shella knew some of that but she was caught unawares but how much such things _mattered_ to these families. She supposed, if she ruled over a significant portion of the Seven Kingdoms, that she, too, would like to be represented by a snappy saying. House Mordane: Uncork the wine.

 

Shella was grateful to be a part of those lessons. Besides distracting her from her own unpleasant personal problems, this practical knowledge made her feel like less of a fraud. Sure, she'd passed the septas' test, eventually, but the motherhouse hadn't truly prepared her for service to a great family like the Mallisters. She wondered at that, given their proximity. Whenever there were enough girls to warrant another session, Shella always asked Septa Maynard if she could assist. Somehow Septa Maynard kept up with the goings on in the world outside Seagard and would add to her history lessons or note changes in position that would effect the girls. "Now, you know Lady So-and-So is coming to visit. Her husband, Lord So-and-So recently died so you will now refer to her as  . . . what?" "Dowager So-and-So," one of the girls would supply. "Why?" "Because she held land before their marriage." "Correct." Shella always marveled at such exchanges, even if she did not pay strict attention to how such things came about.

 

*

 

She also did not pay much attention to Lord Patrek, since he was not in her care or company. He seemed to become a man overnight. He'd gone from running through the castle and wrestling with the other boys to sauntering through the corridors and flirting with the young ladies. He was taught whatever boys in his situation were taught but especially seemed to enjoy and excel at hawking. She didn't have to feign being impressed when she watched him compete in a small tourney organized for his nameday. 

 

That night Shella slipped down to the kitchen for a nightcap. She nearly rounded the last corner when she heard Patrek's slurred voice. She pressed her back to the wall but didn't hear movement. Marq Piper was with him and she could tell they were well on their way to drinking themselves ill. Shella peeked around the corner and saw them both sprawled on the kitchen floor, leaning up against a storage chest and a cabinet, more than one flagon a casualty among them.

 

"Do you know what she told me?" Patrek complained. "After I've spent _weeks_ plying her with compliments and wine and sweets?" He mimicked a high, disgusted voice, "A lady's reputation is everything."

 

Marq laughed.

 

"Damned flimsy excuse."

 

Marq handed Patrek a fresh bottle. "Flimsy? Solid as armor if you ask me. They all use it. I've heard it a time or two myself, if you're willing to believe that."

 

"Armor. Pffft. She doesn't need armor with me. She shouldn't want it," he argued feebly, hurt creeping into his voice.

 

"If a lady's reputation is everything then a lady's armor is courtesy." Marq tipped his bottle in salute toward his friend with a sage nod. He was less drunk than Patrek but still well into his cups.

 

Shella bit her tongue.

 

When Patrek didn't reply, Marq added, "It wasn't a no. You still have a chance."

 

Patrek snorted. "Those polite words. Gods, how I hate them. They tease, they promise, they draw you in, and then they hold you at bay. A lady's armor is courtesy. Shit on that. It's my _nameday._ " He flipped the bottle up in a disgusted gesture and took a swig, spilling nearly as much on the front of his tunic.

 

Shella had to leave then or risk laughing out loud. 

 

*

 

Patrek had grown up and the castle had grown up with him. There was a lull while the new generation of girls grew old enough to need the guidance of a septa. Three or four septas moved on or died but they far outnumbered the young ladies of the gentry. There were still services, of course, and the never-ending sewing but there was also an abundance of lag time. Septa Fleming organized prayer groups and holy book study groups and even outreach groups in conjunction with the motherhouse (which Shella avoided at all cost) but there was no escaping the general lack of employment. This bothered Shella not at all. In fact, she relished it. She took long strolls in town. She made what improvements she could to her wardrobe. She should have known it wouldn’t last.

 

*

"My lord wishes to see you, Septa," the page said respectfully.

 

Something about his tone suggested a shift. Shella was, by now, 40-some years old. She knew her exact age but, on the rare occasions one of the young girls asked her what it was, she’d give an estimate and flutter her hand as though such a trifling thing as the rushing onslaught of old age was a mere nothing to one of her depth and character. She took a fair amount of pride in her long employment with both the Brownstones and the Mallisters. Surely, after all this time, she'd done nothing that would cause her to be cast out.

 

Lord Mallister, ever so handsome, motioned her forward when she was announced.

 

"Septa Mordane, I have exciting news for you."

 

"Oh, my lord?"

 

"You've heard that Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell is to marry Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun?"

 

If anything had been discussed amongst the servants more than that, it was that Lady Lysa Tully was to marry old Lord Jon Arryn during the same ceremony. Whereas the latter pairing drew unkind speculation, the former elicited no little excitement. "Yes, my lord," was all Shella said. She would never admit to gossip.

 

"And you know I've always been grateful to you for your work with the young ladies in my household."

 

"You've always been most kind and generous, my lord."

 

Lord Mallister acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a smile. "I hope you will continue to believe me so as, with your permission, I would like to make a wedding gift of you to Lord and Lady Stark. I will send my warmest recommendation, of course. You've earned no less."

 

"Are there young ladies of faith in the household, my lord?" Shella knew she was underemployed where she was but the north was a hard land filled with stern people, or so the rumors went, and they weren’t followers of the Seven.

 

"By the will of the gods, someday there will be," he said with a laugh. "Lady Catelyn intends to keep to the Faith, I'm told. I thought your companionship would be appreciated."

 

"That's very kind, my lord," Shella said, wondering just how cold it was going to be north of the Neck.

"Thank you, Septa Mordane, and thank you for your service to my household. I know you will be a great comfort to the new Lady Stark.”

 

Uncertainty struck Shella like the Smith’s hammer.

 


	5. The Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few liberties were taken with the timeline here. In canon, Ned and Cat were married at Riverrun in the midst of the war following the death of Brandon Stark. Robb was born there. Ned brought Jon home to Winterfell and Cat joined him there with Robb after the war. That didn't suit my purposes so I have Ned and Cat at WF during a break in the war.

Shella trundled along on the cart, pulling her cloak tighter around her throat. The high granite walls of Winterfell were imposing and the septa had to remind herself to close her mouth. She was unloaded along with the small treasure that Lord Mallister was bestowing upon the newly married couple as wedding gifts. That was snatched up quickly enough by various servants under the watchful eye of a man who soon approached her.

 

"We're pleased to have you join the household, Septa Mordane. I am Vayon Poole, Lord Stark's steward." "My thanks," Shella said. "I am happy to be here," she added reflexively and then wondered if it was true.

 

Once her trunks were collected, she was led through twisting hallways and around half a hundred corners before she was shown to her room. It was certainly not grand but it was somewhat larger than she'd expected and nicely furnished. Better, it was  _warm_. The view was nothing though she detected a small sept in the courtyard. Since Lady Stark kept to the Faith, she'd wondered if she ought to brush up on her prayers but somehow never found the time to do so. There'd been so much to do to prepare for her journey. She had a tattered copy of The Seven-Pointed Star that her father had given her. The cover was stained by something Janna had spilled on it years ago. She placed it on her bedside table and then angled it so it was easily discernible from the door. Then the septa unpacked her clothes, sorry lumps of gray and white and one pretty blue gown she had been unable to resist and had remade into the drab shape of a septa's smock. Having nothing else to do and not wishing to get lost in the keep, Shella laid on the bed and quickly fell asleep. Seemingly moments later, a knock came at her door. A young man (a page? Shella wasn't sure. Winterfell and its population eclipsed Mallister Hall to an astonishing degree) arrived to escort her to the Stark family's solar. Inexplicably, Shella's stomach swooped with nerves.  _You are a gift. A god-sworn gift. They will not turn you away. They will not quiz you. Be calm and polite and all will be well._  She repeated these words to herself as her shoes clacked along the stone floors. She was announced and stepped forward, keeping her eyes on the expensive, richly-colored carpet.

 

"You are most welcome, Septa Mordane," said a man's voice.

 

Shella looked up and was struck by the attractive young couple before her. Lord Eddard Stark was tall. His face was a little on the long side and he seemed a bit serious but he was handsome. Lady Catelyn Stark surpassed her reputation. Shella felt dowdy next to her. Her new lady stood and her hair fell over her shoulder, glinting auburn in the firelight. Her eyes were a rich blue and, when she extended her hand, her fingers were long and elegant. Shella did her best to appear septa-like and, though she remembered little of that initial conversation, she did recall she'd sputtered some nonsense about feeling certain the Mother had called her to Winterfell.  _Ser Jason Mallister is not the Mother, you imbecile._ But no one had seemed to notice or mind her misstep. Instead, the great lady mentioned, with a sweet look at her husband, that Lord Stark was having a sept built for her in the courtyard and would she like to see it. Any answer but yes was impossible so Shella walked through the halls and quietly marveled at the sights while trying to attend her lady and appear as if she belonged there. People were unfailingly polite and Shella felt rather like an honored guest, though she was now, she hoped, a permanent part of the household.

 

The small sept was nearly complete. The building was seven-sided, of course, and each aspect of the Seven was rendered in color-saturated window glass. Shella felt as though she'd walked inside of a gemstone, so lush were the sun-fueled colors. Shella turned around and around to take it all in. The walls were not yet painted and some trim work remained. The altars were in place though the Smith's and the Stranger's windows, which were behind them, were still covered with boards and canvas. One bench was in place though there was room for a few more. Lady Catelyn apparently did not need a complete sept to pray. Candles were here and there but most were gathered in front of the Mother's alter.  _Ahh_ , thought Shella with a slight pang,  _my lady wants children._

 

"It is lovely, my lady," Shella said. "A fit place of worship."

 

"It's a bit of the south here in the north," Lady Stark said with a smile. "I hope you will join me here often."

 

"It would be a pl-" She almost said pleasure. Was pleasure expected or allowed here? Lord Stark did not seem a frivolous man. "Of course, my lady. As often as can be without intruding on your privacy." Shella quickly prayed that her lady liked to worship alone. The Great Hall was nearby and that seemed a much livelier place.

 

Lady Stark showed her around and they chatted a bit more. The Starks had only been married a short time. Stupidly, Shella mentioned Brandon Stark and then had to murmur, "Seven rest him." Her lady took it with good grace. "Many things have changed. Family, duty, and honor remain, however."

"Indeed," was all Shella found to say, feeling a bit stung. She knew the Tully words when she heard them, but it appeared the Tullys, at least, lived by them and expected others to do so as well.

 

*

The long war had taken its toll. Many families had lost loved ones and everyone was still reeling from the terribly violent deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark. They had never expected Eddard to rule over them and now Benjen was talking of leaving for the Wall. If the northerners hadn't been carefree before, Shella thought, they certainly had no reason to be now. The only reason to celebrate was Lord Eddard's marriage and the arrival of their new lady. It was in the wake of all this that Shella had arrived. The entire keep was adjusting to a new way of life and Shella was part of it. She was an object of much attention and she reveled in it.

 

That was fortunate because, aside from praying with Lady Stark each morning, there was not much to do. Lady Catelyn liked to pray. She did not question the texts or, to Shella's relief, the septa in residence but seemed to find comfort from repeating the familiar words. When in a contemplative mood, she would reveal the track of her mind through a thoughtful comment here and there. 

 

Once prayers were said for the day, Shella was generally on her own. There were not many women about. Not of her station, anyway. Lady Catelyn seemed to notice, too, for she would invite the septa to join her for tea now and again and they would talk of the Riverlands, Shella always with more fondness than she felt. Shella made the effort to circulate as much as possible. She went swimming with Septon Chayle in the springs. She joked with the kitchen help. She listened to Old Nan's stories. She made the acquaintance of all the maids. Resa, one of the maids who attended Lady Catelyn, seemed to dislike her on sight. Shella wouldn't have cared except this snub-nosed girl with upstart pretensions and not enough respect for the godsworn was in her lady's company daily and Shella did not want her saying anything that might be injurious to Shella's position.

 

"You're from the Riverlands?" Resa said. "It must be so damp there."

 

"Oh, no, dear," Shella said, "It's an absolutely beautiful area, as Lady Stark can attest."

 

"Yes, she told me that, but she also said it's damp."

 

Shella forced a smile. "Then it must be so."

 

"What do septas do, exactly? Forgive me but I'm not familiar, being from the north myself."

 

"We provide religious instruction and direction in the womanly arts to young ladies -"

 

"But Lady Stark would have had her own septa at Riverrun."

 

"She surely did."

 

Resa knitted her eyebrows together. "I'm confused. Lady Stark is a married noblewoman. She's the most gracious lady I've ever served. Surely she needs no further instruction."

 

"She's the only follower of the Faith at Winterfell. Having the company of someone with the same beliefs can be a comfort. She may choose to raise her children in the Faith."

 

"Lord Stark will certainly want them to worship the old gods."

 

"How kind of him to share his plans with you."

 

"Yes, well, Lady Stark is very well attended by her maids."

 

"I'm not a maid, my dear. We both serve our separate purposes."

 

Resa hadn't liked that and seemed to view Shella as a rival. This bothered Shella not at all since she viewed herself as superior.

 

*

 

When not wrangling with Resa, Shella had, of course, cataloged the various men in the household and there were none for her. Anyone near her age was married or ugly. That was always the way. Any woman with a good man had a sharp eye and a short temper. There were no knights here (an embarrassing lack of panache, if you asked Shella), just a jumble of randomly employed men whose honor seemed to stem from their daily behavior. Or so she supposed. It really didn’t make much sense to her. Point was, it seemed unlikely another Sam or Harrick was going to cross her path so she supposed she’d have to be contented with the fact that she was in a wealthy, noble household. A happy household, too, despite the recent tragedies.

 

Happy minus Resa.

 

"Tea with Lady Stark again?" Resa asked with a tone.

 

"Yes," Shella replied lightly. "It was very kind of Lady Stark to ask me. I'm surprised she didn't mention it to you."

 

"Oh, she did mention it, Septa."

 

"Then why did you ask if you're already in her confidence?"

 

Resa smiled sweetly. "Just making conversation."

 

*

 

Shella was not often in the company of Lord Stark. He was courteous to her and inquired after her satisfaction with her room but he was not a loquacious man. At first she wondered if he was somehow displeased with her but decided against it when, apropos of nothing, he thanked her for keeping his wife company, and she understood him to be overwhelmed. He was a new lord, still reeling from the shocking deaths of his father and older brother, and Benjen’s wanting to take the black was no doubt another source of concern. Lord Stark spent a great deal of time in the godswood. He'd invited Shella to join him once and they'd talked amicably about the differences in their religions. Lord Stark seemed to draw strength from the godswood but Shella found the hush of the trees disquieting. The heart tree’s face seemed to see her too well. 

 

Despite Shella's inescapable association with the Seven, she was treated with respect by everyone. Why people thought she had a special connection with the gods, she didn't know or dispute. Perhaps they were just overused to trees. The residents of the keep got their first exposure to the Faith on Lady Catelyn's nameday when Lord Eddard asked Shella to say a blessing prior to the celebratory meal. She was well prepared. She intoned those words with  _meaning_  and peppered them with pauses that she hoped seemed full of import. Her performance was well received. Lady Stark smiled and expressed her thanks with a quiet, "That was very moving," and Shella felt, for the first time, that maybe her position was secure.

 

*

Not long after, Lady Stark smiled again and asked Shella to join her in the sept. "Perhaps you could light the candles today?" she suggested.

 

"Of course, my lady." Shella lit the candles on the Mother's altar first, as was their custom, while Catelyn settled on a bench and watched the smoke curl towards the ceiling. She breathed deeply and then gave a little cough and seemed to bite the inside of her cheek.

 

"Shall we pray, my lady?" Shella asked, wondering what was causing the delay.

 

"In just a moment." Catelyn seemed to struggle for a moment but then breathed deeply, concentrating on a spot on the floor. "This is more difficult than I expected." When she saw that Shella didn't comprehend, she added, "I'm with child."

 

Shella's eyebrows shot up. The shock was almost immediately replaced by dread. A child, a girl child, would mean  _work_  and lots of it. Her old exhaustion from corralling Janna and Stazia made itself felt in her ever-older bones. "What a blessing!" she gasped. "Lord Stark and I are very happy, though I had not expected the illness to be quite so . . .," she took another slow breath, "intense."

 

"Rest, my lady. Or should I help you back to the keep . . .?"

 

"No, we should pray." It was another long minute before Catelyn moved to kneel in front of the Mother's altar. Shella settled beside her and prayed fervently.  _Let it be a boy. Let it be a boy. Please. By the Maiden, let it be healthy but let it be a boy. Letitbeaboyletitbeaboyletitbeaboy._


	6. The Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM's original text denoted by ** at beginning and end.

When the Starks made their good fortune known to the household at large, Shella took great care to smile serenely at the news. Why would a ripple of surprise have shown on her face when she was the closest thing Lady Catelyn had to a confidante? Resa glared at her and Shella smiled like a cat in cream.

 

*

 

Robert's Rebellion, as it eventually came to be known, flared up again and Lord Stark left to support his friend while Lady Stark returned to Riverrun to give birth. Those remaining at Winterfell celebrated well into the night when a raven came announcing the birth of a boy and heir, Robb Stark. That was the first time Shella fell into her cups at Winterfell. At her request, Maester Luwin was delighted to show her the substantial library and happily pulled all manner of religious books from the stacks for her perusal. Shella looked up prayers for new babies, prayers for sons, prayers for heirs. She would not unleash her new knowledge in a glut; rather she would parcel it out, suggestive of but a drip from a great well of knowledge. She saved the one she liked best for Lady Catelyn's return home. She praised the chubby Robb for his health and vigor and joined his mother in the sept, lighting candles for her and helping her from altar to altar though she was strong and recovered well from childbirth. Yet she looked tired and a few well-timed comments gave Shella to learn that all was not well between her lord and her lady. Indeed, there was another child, a boy, a bastard. The septa was surprised by Lord Stark's perfidy but, thinking back to the boys of her youth, wondered why she should be. She rarely saw the other child, Jon, as he was called. Lady Catelyn couldn't abide him and instead was fiercely protective of her own child. Shella cared not one way or the other and was secretly glad not to have either in her charge. Robb was attended, she supposed, by Old Nan and a wet nurse though Lady Catelyn nursed him at every opportunity. 

 

To Shella's very great annoyance, Resa inserted herself into Lady Catelyn's chambers with even more regularlity. Once she'd finished her lady's hair, she would linger, fussing over clothes or rearranging things on the dressing table but generally listening in on her lady's conversation.

 

"Resa, would you tell Maryann that I'm ready for her to bring me Robb, please?"

 

"Oh, I could bring him to you. I'd be happy to. I love babies!"

 

Shella looked away to hide her annoyance. Resa had been at it all morning.

 

"No, Maryann can bring him."

 

If Resa heard the warning in her lady's voice, she ignored it. "It would be no bother at all."

 

Lady Catelyn pressed her lips together for a moment. "I know it wouldn't but that's not what I asked."

 

Resa's eyes darted to Shella. "Should I have her bring Jon, too? If Septa Mordane is staying, maybe she could help -"

 

Now the insolent girl was setting tasks for her?! Shella rounded on her. "No, you should  _not_! You will have Maryann bring the heir of Winterfell to his lady mother as she requested and leave the other to his maid. Do not bother my lady with any more of your presumptuous suggestions or your stalling. There is never a need for Lady Stark to repeat herself so  _go!_ "

 

Shella's hand flew to her mouth. Resa froze, a wicked smile rapidly repressed. Shella kicked herself for rising to the blasted girl's bait and worried she'd overstepped her bounds but Lady Stark simply looked regal and content as she gave Shella a small nod. "Do as the septa says," she commanded. Resa looked aggravated for half an instant, babbled an apology, and fled. A bond seemed to form between Shella and Lady Stark after that. Resa was demoted from service within the family's quarters and eventually left Winterfell all together. Or so Shella heard with unseemly satisfaction. She certainly didn't inquire.

 

*

 

It seemed but a day had passed when her lady was again with child. Catelyn had asked Shella to be present at the birth, an honor Shella would have happily foregone. They clutched hands as Lady Catelyn's pains came and went and Shella wondered how the white septas could stand the odors and muck. When the moment came, Shella closed her eyes to look as though she was praying and gritted her teeth. Nothing could block her lady's screams. They had prayed often for a healthy child and a safe delivery and it seemed the Seven heard them for Lady Catelyn was delivered of a perfect baby girl.

 

Once things had calmed down, Shella murmured that she would alert Lord Stark and all but fled the room. Later, after Shella recovered with a stiff drink, she returned to see how her lady was faring. "Her name is Sansa," Lady Catelyn said, smiling broadly, her temples still damp but her eyes bright and happy.

 

"She is a beauty," Shella said sincerely, adding, "May the Seven keep her." And indeed she was. Her small features were like those of a doll, her tiny head covered in reddish fuzz. When she opened them, her eyes were as blue as her mother's. Unlike the boys, Sansa was much more in Shella's care. She thought back to Janna and Stazia and wondered how they'd been so wild when Lady Sansa, tiny Lady Sansa, was such a delight. Her mother sewed her beautiful clothes and the little girl cooed and smiled and enchanted everyone. When she took her first dainty steps, Lady Catelyn was again pregnant. This one was a boy, Brandon, quiet, reserved like his father. Shella was surprised by her disappointment. She'd thought another little girl would have been just the thing. Apparently the Starks agreed for, when Shella was teaching Sansa to recite the simplest prayers, another girl was born to them. Arya. Darker than her sister, the wriggling infant howled and arched her back and made a racket fit to split the good septa's eardrums.

 

Sansa patted her sister and cooed, "Hello baby. Hello Arya. Shall I sing for you?"

 

The little monster cried harder and thrashed about.

 

"I think she's hungry, my dear," Lady Catelyn said. "Perhaps you might sing her to sleep a little later."

 

It was a great relief to escort Lady Sansa back to the nursery. It took more than a few nips of wine to take the edge off Shella's headache.

 

*

For Sansa's fifth name day, Lord and Lady Stark presented her with a toy castle. Fixed with hinges, it opened to display a few rooms, a sleeping chamber, kitchen, a grand hall, and even a dungeon where a cell waited for a prisoner to languish. Robb and Bran would storm Sansa's castle with their toy dragons, making the wooden and cloth creatures feast on Sansa's helpless residents until she cried and declared that they'd ruined everything. The boys would pat her and haphazardly place the little dolls into random rooms ("The kitchen maid doesn't  _go_ there!") and then run away shouting and yelling and making their dragons swoop in the air.

One day, Septa Mordane came upon Sansa as she sat on the floor sadly murmuring and bopping her dolls along the length of the castle's great hall.

"What's the matter, my dear?"

 

“They don't bend."

"Bend?" Shella frowned, not seeing the problem.

"How can the prince greet the princess if he can't bow? He can't! It's all wrong!" Tears swam in her blue eyes. "And the princess . . ." Sansa sniffed. "She can't curtsy." She tapped the little wooden royal along the hall, the edge of her oak dress round and inflexible.

"I see. It's not a very proper court, is it?" "No, Septa." She looked down and a tear rolled over the curve of her cheek.

 

"Then we'll just have to make one, won't we?"

"Make one?" Sansa looked up at her, hope bare in her face.

 

"We'll make a court. You can help. I think it's time you learned to sew." Sansa had cloth dolls, of course, but they were generic females.

 

"But needles are sharp!"

 

"And so are you. We'll make a princess that looks just like you."

 

Sansa grinned. "Like me? A princess?"

 

It took some trial and error but Shella eventually hit on a design that worked. The dolls had a seam at their joints and waists so they could bend. She weighted their bottoms with stones and woodchips so they could sit without falling over. They looked odd, their flesh puffing out from the seams, but, once clothed, they'd look as elegant as could be managed. Shella showed Sansa how to sew little clothes and was impressed by how well and how quickly she took to it. Sansa's room was soon littered with scraps of fabric, bits of ribbon and string, and buttons, fake gemstones, and any sparkly thing she could find. Within a few weeks, Sansa's well-dressed court consisted of a king, queen, prince, princess (who had auburn hair like Sansa and the best wardrobe), a knight and his courser, a smallfolk family, a singer, and a maid whose main task was to admire the princess. The prince did double duty as a member of the royal family and as a petitioner for the princess's hand when bowing and curtsying were practiced. Sansa loved the dolls and usually carried at least three of them with her wherever she went. She made them greet her parents and served them tea and lemoncakes and cried whenever Arya got a hold of them.

Fortunately, while Arya was very young, it was Sansa who was the reflection of the septa's value. The first time Sansa, scrubbed and starched and wearing her prettiest dress, recited lines from the Maiden's book, her parents had applauded and exclaimed over how well she was learning her lessons. The curtsy Sansa had included at the end had been her own doing but Shella nodded as though it had been rehearsed. A few extra silver stags found their way into Shella's pay that quarter and her adoration for the girl increased. It was hard not to like Lady Sansa. Not only was she beautiful, she was eager to please, sensitive to the feelings of others, and docile. Shella did not imagine this was due to her own influence but she encouraged Sansa's natural inclinations. The girl liked to read and was partial to tales of suffering maidens rescued by handsome, dashing knights. Shella would begin their lessons with a parable but then allow them both to indulge in the more exciting tales of Sansa's books. Shella excused this laxity on the fact that she was charged with making Sansa a lady and not a septa. As such, from a very early age, Sansa knew how to identify and address correctly most people of rank and to alter her speech to speak with them appropriately. Frankly, Shella was surprised at how easy Sansa found it to come up with something to say. Best of all was that Sansa  _tried_. She shamed Shella with her effort. Shella knew she'd been a poor student and realized how she must have tried Mother Stoutwall and the others with her inattention.

Indeed, if anyone was born to be a lady, it was Sansa Stark. She had an inherent awareness of her status yet was kind to everyone. She had a natural eye for clothes and dressed to advantage. She had a pretty voice and liked to sing. Her parents arranged for her to learn the high harp and the bells and, as with everything else she did, she played them well. She even worshipped well. She'd trail after her lord father sometimes when he disappeared into the godswood with his trees. Shella let her go. If Lord Stark had no objection, nor could she. Sansa seemed to prefer the Faith, though. She'd ooh and aah over the beauty of her mother's sept. From the time Sansa could walk, Shella would bring her to the sept and show her the altars and the candles and tell her stories of each aspect of the Seven. Lady Catelyn would join them and the three, with soft cushions under their knees, would kneel before the gods and pray for the family. Sansa, her tiny hands clasped, would look from her septa to her mother, her face lit up like she could wish for nothing more. Whenever she'd say her prayers aloud in her little-girl voice, Lady Catelyn would look at her dewy-eyed and stroke her hair and tell her how lovely her prayer was. Shella always felt like an outsider in those moments and wondered what she might have become if her own mother had lived. Her father, Seven bless him, truly bless him, had done what he'd thought best, she knew, and, though life was different than she'd imagined it would be, she had many comforts and couldn't complain, except about Arya.

 

Whereas Sansa made her life easy, Arya tried Shella's patience to the very limit. Another boy, Rickon, had been born. Shella was relieved and wished any future children would be male as well. She had more than she could manage with Arya, who had no interest in any of the womanly arts.

Once, instead of singing for her family the little song about the Mother's love for children that Shella had taught her, Arya flashed a mischievous grin and launched into a ribald tavern ballad she'd learned from gods knew where. Mortified, Shella cut her off. "That is not what we practiced, Lady Arya! You stop singing that filthy song  _at once_!"

 “Arya," Lord Eddard had intoned. "That will do. Please go to your room."

 

The girl had pouted and shuffled out and Shella was left wondering if she should somehow defend herself. For a moment there was just horrible, awkward silence.

 

"I'll find out who taught her that song, Father," Robb said.

Lord Eddard nodded his thanks. "Perhaps you'd like to sing something, Sansa," Lady Catelyn offered.

 

Sansa rushed forward and from nowhere produced her hand bells. She did a rendition of a simple children's song about animals that she punctuated with bings and bongs from the bells. Baby Rickon joined her and soon they were giggling and bouncing around and the mood of the room lifted.

 

Shella was relieved but she would impress upon Arya the seriousness of what she had done. Shella was not going to have it said that she taught her charges lewd lyrics and irrational behavior. She was  _not_. As it turned out, Lady Catelyn gave her younger daughter a talking to and Arya meekly apologized to Septa Mordane who had no choice but to accept her apology with grace.

 

That was the start, though, Shella often thought. The more she tried to press Arya into compliance, the more the girl shot out from under her fist. As Arya grew older, Shella realized that Arya simply did not value anything her septa had to offer her. Worse, Shella had the niggling feeling that Arya might not be entirely wrong. Life would bat you around as it would. Knowing five kinds of embroidery was not likely to change that. Still, it was an attack on her worth and Shella bristled at it. Why couldn't Arya be more like her sister? Sansa's beauty, demeanor, and high birth would guarantee her a husband of the highest caliber. Arya, with her long face and general mouthiness, should have listened with rapt attention to Shella's every word but instead she dismissed it all as not worth her time and instead tramped around with Jon and reveled in all the dirt she could find. To Shella's profound relief, Lord and Lady Stark accepted this as their daughter's natural behavior and did not attribute it to lack of success on Shella's part. Whenever she could not contain her exasperation, Shella's threats to advise Lord and Lady Stark of Arya's errant behavior were usually enough to rein her back into sulky compliance if not remorse. And so they see-sawed back and forth and the lines grew deeper on Shella's face and the gray invaded her hair.

 

Much as she excelled, Lady Sansa unfortunately had no head for numbers. It was not Shella's special talent or interest, either, and, besides, why would she know how to run a keep? All she could do was pray to the Crone and leave the rest to Lady Catelyn and Maester Luwin. On the rare occasion when Lady Sansa expressed her frustration, Shella would assure her she'd understand it in good time and think to herself that all she needed to do was hire a good steward. Arya, somehow, was faster on the uptake in that area though she was not a great thinker and showed no interest in sewing. Sansa, of course, excelled at sewing, which only seemed to further peeve her sister.

 

"This is  _boring_ ," Arya whined.

 

"It is not," Sansa said. "There's nothing boring about looking nice. Would  _you_  want to wear that, with the crooked stitches?"

 

"I want to wear mail. Then all I'd need to do is tie knots."

 

Sansa laughed prettily. "You don't mean that."

 

"I  _do_ ," Arya insisted.

 

"Girls, girls," Shella said, looking up from her own endless sewing. "A lady sews and sews well, Lady Arya. Take that out and try again."

 

Later, when Lady Catelyn asked how the girls were getting on with their sewing, Shella was able to praise Sansa to the sky.

 

**"Sansa's needlework is as pretty as she is,"** she said. **"She has such fine, delicate hands."**

 

"And Arya?"

 

**"Arya has the hands of a blacksmith."**

 

Shella often chuckled over the memory. If she had been unable to vent her frustration every now and again, she would surely have embarrassed herself with an excess of drink. Knowing Lady Catelyn shared her frustration made them allies and it suited Shella to have the beautiful and elegant Lady of the North as something like an equal.

 

*

 

Aside from Arya, life in the north was rather pleasant. Shella's enjoyment of the food showed itself in her expanding middle and she was free to let her lord and lady bear the brunt of raising their children. Before she knew it, her forty-sixth name day had passed. Sansa gave her a book of foreign tales. Arya brought her a rock she'd found near the pigsty. Nothing made her aware of how much time had passed, however, until Sansa grew fidgety while a singer entertained the household and some guests after the evening meal.

 

Sansa kept looking down, shifting her hands around in her lap, and otherwise staring at the front of her dress.

 

"Child, what are you doing?" Shella whispered. "Keep your chin up so your face can be seen. No one's going to admire the top of your head!"

 

"I'm worried, Septa! What if I flower? What if everyone  _sees_?"

 

A storm erupted in Shella's mind. "Who has been filling your head with this?"  _If it's those worthless kitchen maids, I'll have their hides._

 

"My lady mother! I . . . I asked where Rickon came from and she . . . she told me about flowering."

 

Shella pressed her lips together. She could not criticize Lady Catelyn but would it have been so hard to inform her that this conversation had taken place so the good septa would not now be caught off guard?

 

"A lady does not discuss such matters in public, Sansa."

 

"Yes, Septa," Sansa whispered back, still eyeing the women as though expecting a sudden hemorrhage.

 

*

 

"Lady Catelyn, if I might have a word, please," Shella said the next morning.

 

"Of course, Septa Mordane. What is it?"

 

"Lady Sansa has made me aware that you've acquainted her with some of the details of womanhood."

 

Understanding lit in Catelyn's eyes. "Yes. I have. Not the details of," she faltered just a little, "of marital relations but I did tell her that she should expect to flower eventually and that it takes a husband and wife to make a baby. I'm sure you'll agree that she doesn't need to know more than that. She's only eight years old, after all."

 

"No, my lady, I quite agree. She just surprised me is all."

 

"I do apologize. I should have realized she'd come to you. I should have told her to restrict her questions to me."

 

Shella could not remember receiving an apology from her lady before. She'd had a few sharp words from her over the years but that was simply Lady Catelyn's way, and her privilege. "I'll be better prepared in the future, my lady, and I will certainly send her to you should she require more information."

 

"Thank you, Septa. It's hard to believe she's almost a woman already." A faraway look stole over her face. The corner of her mouth tucked in and her expression crumpled.

 

"She's young yet, my lady, and just curious," Shella said softly. "And Lady Arya is all but a tender baby still." Arya was rough as a stump but mothers are ever blind when it comes to their own children.

 

Catelyn nodded and sighed.

 

*

 

"When does it happen, septa?" Sansa wanted to know.

 

"Oh, not yet, Lady Sansa. You've nothing to worry about."

 

"But  _when_?"

 

Shella wished to avoid the conversation but the desperation in Sansa's voice reminded her of how she'd felt at that age, with only her father to explain. They’d both been mortified. "In highborn girls it usually happens around the age of twelve or thirteen."

 

Sansa looked relieved.

 

"Your lady mother can explain -"

 

"But what do you  _do_? How do you stop it?"

 

Shella fought not to cringe. "You'll put rags in your smallclothes, my dear."

 

" _Rags!_? I'm not wearing  _rags_!"

 

"No one will see -"

 

"What if they fall out while I'm walking?! Everyone will laugh at me and then no prince will want to marry me."

 

"It's the burden of all women. Princes know this, too."

 

Sansa's face screwed up in disgust. "But . . ."

 

In the end, Shella thought it best just to explain.

 

Sansa's eyes were wide with horror. "The maids  _wash_  them?"

 

_If you're highborn._ "Yes."

 

"I'm not letting them! Mother says we're to be careful about what we let the maids and pages see and hear. How could they ever view me as a lady if they saw or suspected or . . ."

 

"That is your prerogative, my dear, but a woman flowered can be married and you will surely marry the finest of men."

 

"And I will give him the most beautiful babies!"

 

Sansa had been too young to recall the births of Bran and Arya. She had wanted to attend Rickon's birth but, being a child of five, had been denied. As the gods had it, he was born in the middle of the night so, as far as a young Sansa knew, babies simply appeared without any of the blood and muck Shella flinched away from as she attended Lady Catelyn.

 

"Of course you will," she said. There was no need to scare the poor child.

 

That seemed to mollify Sansa and Shella was relieved when she did not pursue the subject any further.

 

*

 

"Look, Septa!" Sansa cried, holding up a white wolf pup.

 

"Good gods, child, where did you get that thing? Take it outside at once! If your mother sees you with that, to say nothing of the carpets, no, it will not do. Go. Go outside at once and put it in the woods."

 

"But Father already said we could keep them!" Sansa pouted prettily.

 

"Did he indeed?" Shella drew herself up to her full inconsequential height and looked down at the girl who never lied to her, wondering if she'd been drawn in more than she should have allowed.

 

"Yes, he did. There's one for each of us, even Jon."

 

Shella pressed her lips together. Would Lord Stark never stop doting on the bastard?

 

"I've named her Lady."

 

Shella knew she was beat. "Very well. But she's not to distract you during your lessons."

 

Sansa nodded and put the pup on a pillow on the floor. "Lay, please," she asked it and the wolf lowered itself down and seemed to await further instruction.

 

If Shella had been ambivalent about the creature before, she was no more enamored when it grew to immense proportions. Sansa's pet, at least, was well mannered. The others, frankly, scared her and she avoided them whenever possible.

 

Sansa took great pride in training her wolf - a direwolf, as it turned out. Though the pupil left much to be desired, it pleased Shella to hear Sansa repeating to her wolf the same lessons Shella imparted to Sansa. Arya, Shella felt certain, brought her wolf with her to her lessons just to intimidate her septa.

 

As usual, they were sewing and, also as usual, Arya burst in late and dust-covered. "Guess what, Sansa!" she shouted. "Mikken was making armor and he actually let me help him! I asked him when he'd make  _me_  some armor and -"

 

Shella cut in. "A lady's armor is  _courtesy_ , Arya, and  _you_  are  _late._ " The words had bypassed her brain and popped out of her mouth. She'd not thought about that long ago overheard conversation in years.

 

Sansa's eyes widened. "Is that from a tale? It sounds so dashing and romantic!"

 

Shella waved a hand. "It was just a thought." She wasn't going to tell Sansa that she was quoting a friend of her uncle Edmure's, a drunk, teenaged Marq Piper.  

 

Arya groaned but turned it into a cough when she caught Shella looking at her from under her brow. Shella sighed to herself and jabbed her needle through her fabric.  _Whatever will become of that girl?_

 

*

 

"The king is coming!" Sansa cried. "And the queen and the prince! I must remake my green gown. I must. At once!"

 

"What's this, child?"

 

"The  _king_  is coming _. Here._  With the queen and the prince!" Sansa dashed over to the cabinet where the sewing supplies were kept. "King Robert wants to make Father his Hand," she called over her shoulder as she rifled through the spools.

 

Shella had not heard a word of this before. "Indeed!"

 

"Yes!" Sansa returned and dropped down into a chair, smiling and excited.

 

Shella's smile faltered. "Then Lord Stark will go to King's Landing."

 

"He will," Sansa said, oblivious to the upset this would cause at Winterfell. "Isn't it exciting? I want to go, too. The city must be wonderful and there must be tourneys and balls all the time!"

 

Shella nodded absent-mindedly as the young girl prattled on. She wondered, for the very first time, what was going on in the world. Why would King Robert wish to make Lord Eddard his Hand now? Why was the entire royal family coming? How old was the prince? Could this mean a betrothal for Sansa? Shella felt a tightening in her chest. Arya would need to be managed while Sansa was displayed to best effect. The result of both efforts would directly reflect on her and that was worrisome.

 

*

 

Septa Mordane's presence was not required when the king's entourage arrived. The Starks lined up to greet them as Shella watched from a tower window, back from view.

 

The king was fat. That was a disappointment. Even from the tower she could make out his booming voice. The queen arrived in a huge, slow wheelhouse. She emerged to show off long golden hair and an elegant dress. Who was that over there?  _My stars._  It was Ser Jaime Lannister. He might be a kingslayer but was he ever handsome. And young. Why, take her back 20 years and . . . Shella sighed. There was no point in frustrating herself. More people were arriving anyway. What was that? A tuskless boar helm? A large knight took off the distinctive armor and shook out long black hair. She didn't know him but he hovered behind the prince who, even from this height, looked tall, blond, handsome, self-assured.  _Oh, yes,_  she thought,  _I like the look of him. He looks worthy of my Lady Sansa._

 

*

 

It was hard for Shella to contain her pleasure when Lady Stark informed her that Shella would accompany Sansa and Arya when their father went to the capital. Sansa was betrothed to the handsome prince. Shella had been worried she would be left behind or, worse, dismissed or, worse still, left behind with Arya when the betrothal took place. But no, she was honored, honored and excited and ready to see the world on the grandest scale. She smiled and nodded calmly at Lady Stark but inside sparks were going off.  _Oh, Father. Had you any idea?_

 

"Sansa, especially, will need you more than ever," Lady Catelyn had said. "She will shine, my lady," Septa Mordane assured her.

 

"I am hopeful that being in a more formal court will inspire Arya . . ."

 

Shella couldn't keep a doubtful look from her face.

 

"Do the best you can with her."

 

"As ever, Lady Catelyn."

 

*

 

The capital would have to wait for Arya's behavior still needed constant modification at home.

 

"Joffrey is awful!" Arya exclaimed. "They all are!"

 

"Arya," Shella snapped. "Mind your tongue! Not only is Prince Joffrey a prince, he is also our guest!"

 

"So is the Hound and you should have heard the way he talked to Ser Rodrik!"

 

"Who?"

 

"The Hound. Sandor Clegane. Joffrey's sworn shield."

 

"Oh,  _him_ ," she said in disgust. Shella had been walking with Sansa when Clegane had crossed their path. Sansa greeted him politely, as was proper, but he had merely looked her over and grunted in response. Shella he had ignored completely. She had not heard his nickname was The Hound until now.  _The Ass_ ,  _more like._

 

"Yes,  _him_! He said -"

 

"Ser Rodrik told me all about it. Prince Joffrey's behavior does not require your commentary, do you understand? He is to be your goodbrother one day and it would behoove you to get along with him,  _and_ Prince Tommen."

 

Arya scowled but remained silent.

 

*

 

But, in truth, having all these royal guests was a strain. Their battalions of retainers were everywhere and Shella felt it incumbent upon herself to display at all times the very correct behavior that they should know was the norm at Winterfell. As such, she walked through the halls of the keep like she owned them. Head up, back straight, shoulders relaxed, hands clasped. Efficient, pious, respectable. She was nearly to her chambers one evening when a shadow separated itself from the darkness. Shella's step faltered for a moment, a hand rose toward her mouth, and she fought to keep from gasping. The Hound. He'd scared her and he knew it. His stride was unhurried, arrogant, the soles of his boots gritty on the stone corridor. Shella opened her mouth to scold him.  _What are you doing in this part of the keep?_  she meant to ask.  _You've no business near the family's quarters._  But she didn't, though her mouth was open. He strutted right down the hall, not stepping aside for her though she was as good as a lady. Better, in some ways, because she was godsworn. Instead, to keep from his hateful aura, she edged aside so he would not brush against her in the wide corridor. Shella closed her mouth and favored him with a look of severe disapprobation.

 

"Septa," he drawled, his voice harsh and raspy. He made the word filthy.

She would not deign to respond though she knew courtesy demanded it. She commanded her feet to move and haughtily ignored him. She was barely past him when he began to laugh, a nasty, snarly laugh that grew louder though he was moving away from her.

 

She hated that the click of her shoes sounded like a scurry when his footfalls were ostentatiously leisurely. Shella had half a mind to report the Hound's whereabouts to Lord and Lady Stark but did not. She sensed, if confronted, that the Hound would belittle her claim and her cheeks burned because she knew he'd gotten the better of her though she couldn't pinpoint exactly how.

 

*

 

They were not leaving for the capital for some time so Arya felt as free as ever to undermine all of Shella's efforts to display her influence to greatest advantage. She should have known the wild girl could not even sit through a simple sewing circle. The queen herself had arrived with the princess and Shella could not help but note that it **was not often she was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts.** Princess Myrcella was beautiful like her mother and Shella sat near her and complimented her stitches. In truth, they were a little crooked but Shella would have sooner returned to the motherhouse than harangue her about it. Then Arya spoke **much too loudly** and Shella had no choice but to turn her attention away from the princess.

 

**"What are you talking about, children?**

 

**"Arya and I were remarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with us today,"** Sansa answered.

 

Shella didn't believe that, not from Arya, but she nodded. **"Indeed. A very great honor for us all."** Shella was relieved when the princess smiled. Arya continued to slouch and there was nothing for it but to set her to rights again. **"Arya, why aren't you at work?"** Shella crossed the room. **"Let me see your stitches."** As expected, they were terrible. **"Arya, Arya, Arya. This will not do. This will not do at all."**

 

Arya threw down her work and ran for the door. Shella was horrified. **"Arya, come back here! Don't you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You'll shame us all!"** To Shella's relief, Arya stopped. Perhaps this flagrant abuse of Shella's authority could be salvaged. **"Just where do you think you are going, Arya?"**

 

**Arya glared at her. "I have to go shoe a horse," she said sweetly.** And then she ran off.

 

Shella could have killed her. How  _dare_  she? And during a royal visit. Shella took a deep breath and then turned around and strode back to her seat next to the princess. "I do apologize, my dear."

 

Myrcella looked down and turned pink. Shella was relieved when nobody remarked further on Arya's disgraceful behavior. Thankfully, Sansa asked the princess a question and the moment passed. Myrcella seemed a bit shy and Shella fervently hoped that shyness extended to the queen. Still, Lady Catelyn had to be told and it was that good lady's ire that restored Shella's mood after having her authority so publicly rebuked.

 

*

 

Had anyone been thinking about Shella’s bruised dignity, Bran's fall provided a complete distraction. Shella felt for Lord and Lady Stark. They seemed to age overnight. Indeed, it was a terrible shame. Bran was a good boy. Never underfoot and consistently polite. Shella said more than one sincere prayer for his survival and recovery. Lady Catelyn was barely to be seen as she would not leave the boy's bedside. Still, Lord Stark had to leave for the capital and arrangements were underway. Shella accompanied Lady Catelyn to check on Arya's progress. There was no need to check on Sansa - the girl would have left a fortnight ago if she'd been allowed.

 

To no one's surprise, Arya's focus was on the wrong thing.

 

"Jon," Lady Stark spat bitterly, "has heard all he needs to. The Wall is the best place for him. He should have been sent there years ago."

 

"That's not fair! I want to say goodbye!" Arya shrieked.

 

"No," Lady Stark replied.

 

"But -"

 

"You heard your lady mother, Arya. Why, you're not even done packing!" Shella stepped further into the room. "This trunk's not even halfway full and why is that beast nosing your gowns? Arya, you'll not be fit to be seen between the wrinkles and the slobber!"

 

The direwolf had looked at Septa Mordane then, its great golden eyes probing her insides. The animal didn't like her. Shella could sense it in her guts, but she would not show fear.

 

"Tsk! A proper southron lady doesn't just throw her clothes inside her chest like old rags. No, no, no, this won't do at all. You must repack. We leave tomorrow!"

 

"But, Mother, I want to say goodbye -" Arya appealed.

 

"You will stay here until you've packed your things," Lady Stark commanded.

 

Shella thought she might have detected a note of triumph in her lady’s voice but couldn't determine why that would be. Still, if Arya was to stay she would miss Benjen's departure and Shella wondered briefly at the propriety of that but then dismissed it in the face of her lady's displeasure.

 

"But he's leaving forever!"

 

Shella held up a hand. She eyed the clothing strewn about the room, draped on every available surface like lichen clinging to stones.  _Expensive_  lichen. "I will show you  _again_  the proper way to pack."

 

Lady Stark nodded, gave her daughter a stern look, and swept out of the room.

 

In painstaking detail, Shella showed an inattentive Arya how to fold gowns to minimize creases.

 

Arya chewed her lip in a way Sansa would never have done and attempted to fold a dress as shown. In truth, her work was fine but Shella insisted she do it again. With a word of warning to finish the task as required, Shella left her to it. After all,  _she_  was not the one being punished so why should she stay cooped up in a messy room with an insolent girl and a bloodthirsty beast?

 

_Mother, grant me patience_ , Shella thought for the millionth time.


	7. The Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM's original text denoted by **

The long trip down the Kingsroad was satisfying in that it pleased Shella to see Sansa selected to ride with the queen and the princess in the wheelhouse. Arya, as ever, ran wild but that was her father's doing and no one could hold Shella to task for not gainsaying Lord Stark, now Hand of the King. She did wish, however, that Sandor Clegane was not always ruining the scenery. He seemed to disquiet Sansa as well for she kept glancing in his direction.

 

"Does he bother you, child? I will ask your father to have him ride in the rear."

Sansa flushed. "Oh, no! He must remain by the prince!"

 

_And the prince must remain by you._

 

"Has he said anything to you?"

“No, Septa, not a word. In truth he doesn't need to. He's fearsome, is he not?"

 

That was too close to a compliment for a brute little better than sellsword. "Straight spine, please. It does not do to slouch."

*

 

Sansa, Arya, and Shella had been invited to ride with the queen and princess in the elegant wheelhouse and It reflected well on her, Shella thought, and her influence on Lady Sansa's exemplary manners to have been included. After so many days on the road, Shella was more than ready for a little comfort and luxury. Truth be told, she was just slightly put out that the invitation had not been proffered earlier and that, once it was, several days had gone by before a firm date was fixed. Still, the fact of their being in each other's company is what would be remembered, not the trifles of scheduling, so Shella was in a fine mood that morning. They'd stopped at an inn near the Trident and Shella was savoring the decadent warm bread and honey. A thick larder of bacon, crusted in salt, was also on the table next to a bowl that was now empty of two oranges and a handful of walnuts. It was a welcome change from the dried, already-stale food they were forced to eat on the road. 

Sansa joined her. "Where's Father?" **"The king sent for him. Another hunt, I do believe. There are still wild aurochs in these lands, I am told."**

 

**"I've never seen an aurochs," Sansa said, feeding a piece of bacon to Lady under the table. The direwolf took it from her hand, as delicate as a queen."**

 

**Septa Mordane sniffed in disapproval. "A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table," she said, breaking off another piece of comb and letting the honey drip down onto her bread.**

 

**"She's not a dog, she's a direwolf," Sansa pointed out as Lady licked her fingers with a rough tongue. "Anyway, Father said we could keep them with us if we want."**

 

_Of course he did._ **" You're a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you're as willful as your sister Arya."** Arya. Like a hangover without the benefit of drink that girl was. **"And where is Arya this morning?"**

 

**"She wasn't hungry," Sansa said.**

 

**"Do remind her to dress nicely today. The grey velvet, perhaps. We are all invited to ride with the queen and Princess Myrcella in the royal wheelhouse, and we must look our best."**

 

**Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone, and picked her nicest blue silks. "I'll tell her," Sansa said uncertainly, "but she'll dress the way she always does."**

 

Shella sighed, knowing Sansa was probably right.

 

**"May I be excused?"**

 

**You may." Septa Mordane helped herself to more bread and honey and Sansa slid from the bench. Lady followed at her heels as she ran from the inn's common room.**

 

_Mmmmm._  The bread was warm, yeasty, and filled with little nooks to soak in all the honey's sweetness. It was wonderful paired with the saltiness of the bacon.  If no one else was going to eat it, why should it go to waste? Shella reached again for the platter.

 

*

 

The girl was in  _tears_. Hot, messy, runny, snotty tears. "Oh, Septa," she wailed. "Arya ruined  _everything_!"

Shella could well believe it but even she was shocked when Sansa described what had taken place that afternoon. This was beyond anything she could ever have ascribed to Arya. The girl was willful but she was not vicious. She was loyal to a fault (and ignored those she didn't heed, like Shella) and she could usually be brought in line but to throw the prince's  _sword_  in the  _river_? To allow her beast to attack her sister's betrothed? The only part that made sense was that Arya did all this in defense of a mere butcher's boy.

 

"What am I to  _do_?" Sansa cried.

 

Shella could see this situation had to be salvaged immediately. The thought that Sansa, and Shella along with her, could be dispatched back to Winterfell in disgrace was insupportable. Shella summoned a page and learned that Lord Stark was with the king and Arya was missing. She did not relay that to Sansa and knew now was not the time to request her lord's attention. Once found Arya was to tell her side of things to the king and Shella knew that Sansa's testimony would also be required. So she calmed Sansa as best she could and thought hard. Sansa's reputation had to be preserved at all costs. She must support Joffrey's claim but she could not discredit Ayra, either. The future queen could not publicly accuse her sister of lying and damage the family's reputation. Lady Catelyn, it was rumored, had advocated the match and it was up to Shella to preserve it. Sansa's response must be perfectly diplomatic. "You will tell them you don't remember."

"But -" Sansa sobbed into a handkerchief.

"There was so much going on. You didn't know Arya was there. The wolf moved too quickly to truly see what happened. In all the commotion and yelling and screaming, you were overwhelmed and just trying to restore peace. You were trying to help them all."

It took a few repetitions but Sansa eventually saw the wisdom of her septa's words.

 

Later, there was more sobbing. Hot, racking sobs that shook Sansa so hard Shella thought the poor girl would make herself sick. The injustice of it, at the beautiful queen's hand, no less, struck Shella but a direwolf was never a fit pet for a lady anyway. *

 

** The first course, a thick sweet soup made with pumpkins, had already been taken away when Ned Stark strode into the Small Hall. It was a long room with a high vaulted ceiling and bench space for two hundred at its trestle tables.** Lord Eddard's men were dining. **Each man wore a new cloak, heavy grey wool; with a white satin border. A hand of beaten silver clutched the woolen folds of each cloak and marked their wearers as men of the Hand’s household guard. There were only fifty of them, so most of the benches were empty. The servants began bringing out platters of ribs roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs.**

 

Jory, who was unusually well informed, commanded everyone’s attention when he said there was to be a tourney in Lord Stark’s honor. **Sansa’s eyes had grown wide as plates. “ _A tourney_ ,” she breathed. She was seated between Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, as far from Arya as she could get. "Will we be permitted to go, Father?”**

 

**“You know my feelings, Sansa. It seems I must arrange for Robert’s games and pretend to be honored for his sake. That does not mean I must subject my daughters to this folly.”**

 

Shella frowned to herself. Surely this was going to be a rare bit of entertainment and it was cruel of Lord Eddard to deny them. Sansa seemed to agree.

 

**“Oh,  _please_ ,” Sansa said. “I want to see.”**

 

**Septa Mordane spoke up. “Princess Myrcella will be there, my lord, and her younger than Lady Sansa. All the ladies of the court will be expected at a grand event like this, and as the tourney is in your honor, it would look queer if your family did not attend.”**

 

Lord Stark **looked pained. “I suppose so. Very well, I shall arrange a place for you, Sansa.” He saw Arya. “For both of you.”**

 

**“I don’t care about their stupid tourney,” Arya said.**

 

Shella groaned to herself. Would she never get over that butcher’s boy? She prayed she would not have to sit with Arya. Surely even Lord Stark would see that she must chaperone Lady Sansa.

 

**Sansa lifted her head. “It will be a  _splendid_  event. You shan’t be wanted.”**

 

_Be quiet, you foolish girl, or we’ll both be stuck inside that day!_

 

**Anger flashed across [their father's] face. “ _Enough_ , Sansa. More of that and you will change my mind. I am weary unto death of this endless war you two are fighting. You are sisters. I expect you to behave like sisters, is that understood?”**

 

**Sansa bit her lip and nodded. Arya lowered her face to stare sullenly at her plate.**

 

**The only sound was the clatter of knives and forks. "Pray excuse me," [Lord Eddard] announced to the table. "I find I have small appetite tonight." He walked from the hall. **

 

**Sansa exchanged excited whispers with Jeyne Poole.** The men resumed their talk and Shella sucked on a rib bone. Southron cooks really knew their business. Then Arya made to leave.

 

**“Pray, where do you think you are going, young lady?” Septa Mordane asked.**

 

**"I'm not hungry. … May I be excused, please?" she recited stiffly.**

 

**"You may not," the septa said. "You have scarcely touched your food. You will sit down and clean your plate."**

 

**"You clean it!" Before anyone could stop her, Arya bolted for the door as the men laughed and Septa Mordane called loudly for her, her voice rising higher and higher.**

 

Arya kept running, as was her custom whenever confronted with a situation not to her liking.

Didn't the girl register her father's displeasure? It irked Shella that more should need to be said on the matter, and that she suspected some of the laughter was at her expense. If Arya wasn't going to obey her own lord father, what hope did Shella have with her? With as much dignity as she could muster, Shella calmly resumed her seat and daintily placed her napkin back in her lap. She would not let the others see the shame she was feeling.  _The wise septa knows when to choose her battles_ , they would think.

 

*

 

**Sansa rode to the Hand’s tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa’s breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind . . . and the knights themselves, the knights most of all.**

 

**“It is better than the songs,” she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides, thundered past them like an avalanche. Sansa remembered Lord Yohn Royce, who had guested at Winterfell two years before. “His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm,“ she whispered to Jeyne.**

 

Shella ** pointed out Lord Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, the wings of an eagle on his helm.** “He **cut down three of Rhaegar’s bannermen on the Trident,**” she boasted to the girls. “He is a fine man with a lovely household,” she added wisfully. She’d never told Sansa, much less Jeyne, that she’d been a gift and she’d gotten the impression no one else had, either. It was so long ago now as to be pointless but it never hurt to give the impression that one’s past was worth missing.

 

**The girls giggled over the warrior priest Thoros of Myr, with his flapping red robes and shaven head, until [Shella] told them that he had once scaled the walls of Pyke with a flaming sword in his hand.**

 

The roster of competitors went on and on. **The Hound had entered the lists as well, and so too the king’s brother, handsome Lord Renly of Storm’s End.**

 

**Jory, Alyn, and Harwin rode for Winterfell and the north. “Jory looks like a beggar among these others,” Septa Mordane sniffed when he appeared. Jory’s armor was blue-grey plate without device or ornament, and a thin grey cloak hung from his shoulders like a soiled rag.**  _Would it have killed him to represent us as he ought?_ Shella thought, embarrassed by their connection. Thank the Gods, ** he acquitted himself well, unhorsing Horas Redwyne in his first joust and one of the Freys in his second. In his third match, he road three passes at a freerider named Lothor Brune whose armor was as drab as his own.** Ultimately the king decided in favor of Brune and Shella was determined to be satisfied that at least Jory had not been unhorsed.

 

**Jeyne covered her eyes whenever a man fell, like a frightened little girl, but Sansa was made of sterner stuff. Septa Mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval.** However, even Shella was tried when a young knight from the Vale was killed by Ser Gregor. Jeyne **wept so hysterically that [Shella] finally had to take her off to regain her composure.** Fortunately, most people were watching the boy’s body be removed but the few who noticed Shella escorting the sobbing Jeyne away murmured with sympathy. Shella took Jeyne to her room and then Shella returned to her own chamber for a brief respite and a nip of wine. She was relieved to find Sansa well when she returned. “Jeyne was feeling ill, the poor dear. I helped her return to the castle,” she explained loudly enough for others to hear. Sansa nodded absentmindedly.

 

**Ser Loras was the youngest son of Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. At sixteen, he was the youngest rider on the field, yet he had unhorsed three knights of the Kingsguard that morning in his first three jousts. His plate was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Ser Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly around the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd.**

 

Shella sat up quite straight when Ser Loras finally stopped in front of Sansa. He plucked a red rose and said, **"Sweet lady, no victory is half so beautiful as you.”** To Sansa’s credit, she took the flower timidly and inhaled the fragrance. She **sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off.** Shella’s heart swelled with pride. Yes, he should have done right by his future queen and honored her with the first flower but he did distinguish her with a  _red_  rose. Shella kept her back straight and her chin high, too well bred to turn to see who was looking at them, though she scanned the periphery as much as her eyes allowed.

 

A while later, Shella noticed a ripple in the crowd and saw none other than Lord Petyr Baelish making his way  . . . it couldn’t be toward them, could it? Indeed he was. Shella found herself struck dumb. He was a man of urbane elegance and, by all appearances, extravagant wealth. He ran the treasury, after all. She struggled to come up with an appropriate greeting as he stopped and stood above Sansa.

 

**“You must be one of her daughters,” he said to her** with a smile. Shella’s heart lept again. She hoped everyone was watching as they were honored with his attention. **“You have the Tully look.”**

 

**“I’m Sansa Stark.”** Sansa said, politely.

 

**The man wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird, and he had the effortless manner of a high lord.** Shella was calculating what his attire must have cost when Sansa added,**“I have not had the honor, my lord.”**

 

Shella snapped out of her distraction. **“Sweet child, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king’s small council.”** How had Sansa not known?

 

**“Your mother was  _my_  queen of beauty once,” the man said quietly. His breath smelled of mint. “You have her hair.” His fingers brushed against her cheek as he stroked one auburn lock. Quite abruptly he turned and walked away.**

 

Shella didn’t know what to make of that. Certainly nothing she or Sansa had said or done could have given offense. Lord Baelish must have many things on his mind. That he'd given them any of his time was to their credit, she was sure.

 

*

 

The discomfort of the encounter faded soon enough as they returned to the castle to prepare for the feast. Not even Jeyne's hysteria could quell Shella's satisfaction with the day's events. She did feel some sympathy for the poor girl. In truth, she was grateful to step away for some air after that horrible death right at their very feet. And she hadn't even missed anything! Just the Hound and Lord Renly sporting with the rabble a bit. Nothing to see there. And, now, here they were. Her lovely Sansa was seated at the head table, of course, but she, Shella, a septa from an undistinguished motherhouse in Seagard, was honored with a place at her charge's side. She was mere feet from the king and queen!  _Oh Father! If only you could see me now!_   _You would burst with pride!_  She looked down on the lower tables only once and then dismissed them from her notice.

 

How the wine flowed! Shella was poured a cup of iced summerwine by darling Prince Joffrey himself. The boy doted on Sansa and Shella didn’t mind at all that she was ignored by her charge.  _Bless her_ , Shella thought.  _Bless the girl who's made it possible, and so easy._

 

Shella wasn’t certain who filled her cup after the first one, she only knew that it was always full. She raised it often to wash down the avalanche of food. **A thick soup of barley and venison** was followed by **salads of sweetgrass and spinach and plums, sprinkled with crushed nuts.** While they ate, the king’s own fool entertained them with barbs and jokes and songs. Later, Shella wished she could have remembered the song about the High Septon but the lyrics escaped her. She had roared with laughter, though, and sloshed wine down her front. She patted at it while trying to make it appear she was fanning herself with her napkin. It really was quite warm. **Snails in honey and garlic** were next and Shella surreptitiously copied Sansa’s movements when the prince showed her how to extract the meat. Musicians played when the fool took his leave and by then Shella was in a lively mood. How she longed to dance! It had been so long, so very long, since a man had held her in his arms and whirled her around a pub floor. But this was no pub. She drank a silent toast to herself and wondered if Paul and her old friends would believe how high she'd risen. She might be a septa, but she was a septa at the high table with the king and queen. Oh, it was sweet recompense. Her life, which she feared would be drab and dull, was only just on the outskirts of what was exciting, vibrant, and relevant. Happy, she took another bite of the trout baked in clay and sighed a sigh of contentment. She looked around to see who might be noticing her and found the ugly visage of that good-for-nothing Hound. He was against the wall in the shadows, his eye on the prince. Shella gave him a stern look, as though his gaze could somehow besmirch her lovely Sansa, but he didn't notice. Gods but the Seven hadn't favored him at all. No gods had. Too bulky by half and that _face_. Why, it was a wonder the women of King's Landing didn't go screaming out the gates. But she supposed that wasn't charitable. The prince, thank the Seven, was alive and well and she supposed the Hound ought to get some credit for that.

 

A servant placed a wedge of pigeon pie in front of her and Shella forgot all about the Hound. Praise the Crone her robes were loose or she might have had to decline the baked apple that followed. She really was quite full but it would be insulting not to partake.

 

Shella took a deep breath and was satisfied. A moment later, she realized she'd nodded off briefly. The next thing she knew, it was the middle of the night and the hall was empty but for the drunks sleeping it off at the lower tables. She'd been dreaming. Paul was shaking her arm, begging her not to go to the motherhouse. The dream was over now, though, and Shella looked around in horror. She'd done something as common as sleep at a table, the  _head_  table, in full view of anyone who cared to report it to Lord Stark. She pressed a hand to her chest and looked around. Where was Sansa? "Lady Sansa?" she called, turning this way and that. "Lady Sansa?" she called louder.

 

"Shut the hells up," some miscreant from down below called. "Can't you see we're trying to sleep?"

 

A dog was licking a puddle of spilled ale. Musicians slept in the gallery. From somewhere came the noises of an indiscreet couple. Fear almost froze her in place but she had to find Sansa. No one would hurt her. Who'd dare? But until her safety was confirmed, Shella could not rest. "Where is Lord Stark?" she called out.

 

A serving girl answered from behind her, nearly making her yelp in terror. "Try the Tower of the Hand."

 

"Yes, I know where he's staying but where is he  _now_?"

 

The girl shrugged.

 

"Where is Lady Sansa? Do you know her? Young girl, very pretty, betrothed -"

 

"We all know who she is, Septa."

 

Shella's fear was making her stupid. "Where has she gone? Did she return to the Tower with her lord father?"

 

"The Hound took her."

 

Shella gasped. "That -" She almost said it. Almost called him what she thought he was, an up-jumped sellsword who thought he was too good to take vows.  _She'd_  taken vows.  _Him._ Alone with Lady Sansa. Gods only knew what liberties he would take. "That was very kind of Prince Joffrey." Oh, that was better. It wouldn't do to insult the prince's dog, or his decisions. "Very kind."

 

The girl gave her a dubious look. "As you say."

 

The thought of crossing the vast field in the dark was daunting. "Are, um, any wagons still heading back to the keep?"

 

The girl grabbed a few goblets and put them in her apron to take them back to the kitchens. "At this hour?"

 

In the end, Septa Mordane had to go it alone. She nearly twisted her ankle a half a hundred times in the dark but she kept her eyes on the distant torchlight and eventually, chilled to the bone and half-shaking with fear, made it to the Tower of the Hand. She was quite sober now and greeted the Stark household retainers calmly. If they thought the hour of her arrival was odd, they had the sense not to remark on it. Shella looked in on Sansa and was relieved to find the girl asleep in her bed. With a prayer of thanks to the Maiden, she returned to her own room and slept the few hours until dawn.

 

The morning light crashed through her window and with it came a roaring headache and a tongue that felt like it had licked the stable floor. The mere thought of listening to the clangor of jousting made her temples throb. Shella summoned a maid and told her to advise Lord Stark that Shella was sick today. She also requested a bath be readied for her later in the morning. "Or perhaps the early afternoon. I should feel better by then." The girl wasn't buying a word of it but politely said, "Yes, Septa," and left.

 

More than Shella's stomach felt uneasy. She was worried that her indiscreet drunkenness would earn her a reprimand from Lord Stark. Worse, she knew Sansa was set on watching the final tilts and would need a chaperone. She felt with a sick certainty that Lord Stark would be called upon to take up her post. The Hand of the King might not be best pleased to have his time and position squandered on escorting Sansa and Jeyne to a tourney he himself opposed. Shella's guts squirmed.

 

Still, she committed to her recuperation. She passed the morning in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. She lingered in her bath with a book of no doctrinal merit and nibbled on the grapes and cheese a maid brought her. Much later, she dressed and teetered to the Small Hall.

 

Sansa bubbled over with the details of the day. "A commoner won the archery competition, and the melee, the melee went on for  _three hours_! That  _silly_  Thoros won with his flaming sword. It was spectacular! But the jousting, oh, Septa, you wouldn't believe it! I said the Hound would win and so he did." Shella gaped at Sansa as the girl described Ser Gregor's actions and how Ser Loras had been saved by the prince's dog. Where was the decorum? And in front of the king himself! Things were certainly fast and loose in the capital. Anything could happen and that made Shella’s stomach feel once again unsettled. So did one other thing, loathe though she was to address it.

 

"Sansa, dear, speaking of him, I understand Ser Sandor escorted you back from the feast last night."

 

Sansa’s whole countenance changed. "Oh, he's no  _ser_ , Septa."

 

"I daresay not but he  _did_  bring you right back to the Tower, did he not?"

 

"Yes." A thought occurred to her. "I tried to wake you, truly I did. I had no intention of leaving you behind."

 

Shella waved a hand in dismissal. "I was worried only for your safety, child."

 

Sansa looked down. "The Hound, Sandor, brought me right to my door.”

 

Shella sensed Sansa was not telling her everything but let it go. Sansa was unharmed and, as no mention was made of Shella’s drunkenness or absence, there was no need to go looking for trouble.

 

*

 

Not by Shella, anyway. Arya found it as usual. Lord Stark, whose expression was usually thoughtful, looked rattled. Shella had been summoned and, when questioned, could only answer honestly that she had no idea where Arya was. “Perhaps with her dancing master . . .?”

 

“No, I’ve spoken with him already.”

 

“Maybe Jory -”

 

“No. Septa, do you know of any friends she’s made, any places she’s mentioned wanting to visit, anywhere at all that she might have gone?”

 

Shella wondered if this was information she was expected to have and suspected it was. “No, my lord,” was all she said. She really did hope the girl was not dead. The castle was busy enough but the city itself, she heard, was crawling with dangers. She and Sansa had been out but once together, and under guard at that, and the filthy, ugly faces of the people had been turned toward them the whole time. It was not in admiration of Sansa; that she could have endured. It was the undercurrent of resentment that had put her on edge. And now Arya was perhaps in the thick of a mob.

 

“My lord, I cannot imagine where the dear girl has gone. I beg leave to go to the sept and pray for her swift discovery.”

 

Lord Stark nodded. “Thank you, Septa.”

 

Shella did, in fact, go to the sept and she did offer up a prayer before resting on a bench.  _What has that girl gone and done this time?_  she wondered. She stayed in the sept far longer than she would have liked but she could not be seen engaging in anything frivolous while one of her charges was missing. A few septas she'd met came in and Shella asked if they'd seen Arya but they had not. To her very great relief, Arya was in her father’s chambers when Shella returned to the castle. She hoped the girl's behavior would improve after this.

 

But, no, again Shella was disappointed. Shocked, really, because the very handsome Jaime Lannister and his men had, it was said within the Tower, attacked Lord Stark and his men in the streets. Debonair Lord Baelish had gone to summon the Gold Cloaks but they had not arrived until after Lord Stark’s leg had been broken and Jory, Heward, and Wyle had been slain. Slain! She’d looked over their bodies and offered up a prayer before they were sent north for burial. All of them kept to the old gods but Shella’s status as a member of the Stark household seemed good enough for an immediate appeal to the gods for their peaceful slumber. Her suggestion that they be taken to the keep’s godswood was abruptly declined. Alyn had muttered something about not trusting the Lannisters with even the trees on their property.

 

For the children's sake, Shella had put on a brave face but she was shaken deeply. If the king’s own goodbrother should feel free to attack her lord, how safe were any of the rest of them? And what was Lady Catelyn thinking by taking the Lord Tyrion Lannister as her captive? None of it made sense and Lord Stark was not available to explain it to her.

 

"Come, girls, it's time," Shella said in a subdued voice. She shepherded Sansa and Arya through the Tower to Lord Stark's chambers. Alyn nodded at them gravely at the door. Septa Mordane lingered after nudging the girls inside.

 

"What news?"

 

"None, Septa. Maester Pycelle keeps him asleep. He says the pain would be unbearable if Lord Stark was to awake right now."

Shella frowned. Maester Pycelle tended to the king and his family and, she presumed, should be trusted but there were whispers. Not about his competency but just whispers in general. Something seemed to be happening. The other septas said nothing, nothing that was not a direct quotation from one or other of the holy books. They did not treat her like a pariah but Shella sensed they were in league and that the Starks' popularity was fading.

Sansa, as she had done for the past four days, knelt quietly at her father's bedside and prayed. Arya glared in silence. Her chest rose and fell as though she were breathing deeply but instead of making her calm, a hot anger seemed to radiate from her. "He will be all right, my dear," Shella said to her once, Arya was but a young girl, after all, but all she got by way of reply was for Arya to pull in her lip to chew. It was nearly disconcerting, the intensity of Arya's demeanor. Lashing out was Arya’s norm. Stony withdrawal was not.

 

After six days and seven nights, Lord Eddard awoke. Sansa shed tears of joy. Shella thought she might have seen some gratitude in Arya but the anger just seeped below the surface. Shella tried to draw her out for Lord Stark’s sake but she was ignored. At a loss for what else to do, she corralled the girls to the sept. Arya plopped down onto a bench, crossed her arms, and glared at the floor. Shella brought her a candle.

 

"What do I need this for?" Arya asked in a fierce whisper.

 

Shella opened her mouth and found nothing to say. She couldn't recall the purpose of the candles. It was just part of the routine. She glanced at Sansa, who could usually be relied upon to fill in the gaps in her sister's ignorance, but the girl was on her knees before the Father's altar, her forehead resting on her clasped hands.

 

Arya's eyes had followed the septa's gaze. She took the candle from Shella's hands, stalked over to the Warrior's altar, dropped the candle at his feet, and pinched out the flame with her bare fingers before exiting the sept without a care for what anyone might have thought. Shella looked up at the Warrior's likeness. She couldn't remember ever offering him a prayer before.  _Maybe I should_ , she thought vaguely, wishing her stomach wasn't knotting up in unnamed dread.  _Warrior . . . I fear we need you . . ._


	8. The Crone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM's original text denoted by **

To Shella’s very great relief, Lord Eddard quickly resumed his duties. Shella found this proper and befitting a man of his stature. It helped to quiet the unease that had been dogging her footsteps these past days. Her lord was hobbled by a heavy plaster cast but was expected to recover.  _If Lord Stark can return to his post, it is only fitting that I do the same_ , thought Shella, though it gave her no pleasure. She insisted on taking Sansa to watch the court proceedings that day. The girl's presence, she felt certain, would bolster her father's spirit and, as she explained to Sansa, it was imperative that the future queen learn how justice was dispensed in her land. What Shella didn't tell Sansa was that she felt such an outing might allay any hard feelings over her drunkenness at the feast and her lack of knowledge regarding Arya's whereabouts the day she went missing. Yes, a sober day at court would set everything to rights.

 

They found space in the gallery and were obliged to stand. Shella was disappointed that no one offered them chairs and her feet began to ache almost immediately. The proceedings were dull until Ser Gregor was accused of ravaging Sherrer and Wendish Town. Ser Loras, that soft-curled looker, offered his services. Shella could practically see Sansa salivate over him. The boy was pretty for true, but he lacked the regal air that Prince Joffrey possessed. **”I beg you the honor of acting in your place. Give this task to me, my lord, and I swear I shall not fail you.”** Lord Eddard was blind to the Knight of Flowers's charms and refused his offer of assistance, sending a motley crew of others instead. Sansa's gasp told Shella that they were equally shocked. **”No one doubts your valor, Ser Loras, but we are about justice here, and what you seek is vengeance,”** Lord Eddard intoned in a way that reminded Shella of Lady Catelyn.

 

The session broke up shortly thereafter and Shella and Sansa shuffled with the crowd toward the steps. In an undertone, Sansa fumed, "Ser Gregor is a monster! How could Father not send Ser Loras, who looks every inch a true hero, to slay him? It's upset me more than I can say!"

 

Though Shella agreed, the girl was speaking much too much in public and Shella sought to quell her with a stern, "You are not to question your lord father's decisions."

 

A smooth voice cut in. **"Oh, I don't know, Septa. Some of her lord father's decisions could do with a bit of questioning. The young lady is as wise as she is lovely." Then he favored Sansa with a deep bow.

 

Shella was  _horrified_. **“The girl was just talking, my lord. Foolish chatter. She meant nothing by the comment.”**

 

**Lord Baelish stroked his little pointed beard and said, “Nothing? Tell me, child, why would you have sent Ser Loras?”**

 

As Sansa rattled on about heroes and monsters, Shella was chagrined to her very bones. Sansa was just a girl but to admit to such nonsensical thoughts to a man such as Lord Baelish? Where was her discretion? Shella thought her teeth would crack, so hard was she pressing them together to keep a smile on her face.

 

**The king’s councilor smiled. “Well, those are not the reasons I’d have given, but . . .” He had touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. “Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow.”**

 

Shella chivied Sansa off just as soon as she could. This would not help her case with Lord Stark. Not at all. She'd heard him mutter about Lord Baelish's liberal speech more than once.

 

Shella huffed all the way back to the Tower. "He gave you sound advice, Sansa. It won't do to go spouting off storybook nonsense to a small council member.  _He_  will answer to _you_  one day and he will not respect your authority at all if he believes your head is stuffed with straw." Sansa apologized but Shella was not mollified. In truth, she was angry with herself for not cutting the girl off sooner. Lord Eddard had humiliated Ser Loras today, publicly disagreed with Maester Pycelle, and pronounced a death sentence on Lord Tywin’s faithful servant, Ser Gregor, on the scant testimony of farmers, smiths, and the like. Shella sighed. Why was it, she asked the Crone later, one or the other of them was always making missteps? Shella felt she didn't know how to respond to anything and, what was worse, she suspected Lord Stark didn't, either. Quite out of sorts, she told Sansa her feet ached **from standing in the gallery all day** and left her to have a cold dinner with Jeyne as penance.

*

 

_A wooden spoon?_  Shella thought irritably.  _Who eats porridge with a wooden spoon?_  The porridge clung to it, forcing the septa to suck on it in a most unladylike manner. She’d have to have a word with the maids. A little more thought and a little less flirtation with the men-at-arms was what was needed here. She dug in again, frowning when the thickness of the spoon prevented her from making a clean swipe of the bowl.

 

**“Where is everyone?” [Arya] wanted to know as she ripped the skin from a blood orange. “Did Father send them to hunt down Jaime Lannister?”**

 

**Sansa sighed. “They rode with Lord Beric, to behead Ser Gregor Clegane.” She turned to Septa Mordane ... “Septa, will Lord Beric spike Ser Gregor’s head on his own gate or bring it back here for the king?”**

 

**The septa was horror-struck. “A lady does not discuss such things over her porridge. Where are your courtesies, Sansa? I swear, of late you've been near as bad as your sister.”** It was only then that Shella realized Arya was in the room. She shot the wooden spoon a malevolent glare.

 

**“What did Gregor do?” Arya asked.**

 

**“He burned down a holdfast and murdered a lot of people, women and children, too.”**

 

**Arya screwed up her face in a scowl. “Jaime Lannister murdered Jory and Heward and Wyle, and the Hound murdered Mycah. Somebody should have beheaded  _them_.”**

 

Shella tuned her out. If the girl couldn’t see sense by now . . . She reached for the bacon.

 

**“It’s not the same,” Sansa said. “The Hound is Joffrey’s sworn shield. Your butcher’s boy attacked the prince.”**

 

**“Liar,” Arya said.**

 

**“Go ahead, call me all the names you want,” Sansa said airily. “You won’t dare when I’m married to Joffrey. You’ll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace.”**

 

Sansa shrieked and Shella looked over to see Arya’s orange fall from Sansa’s face and plop into her lap.

 

**“You have juice on your face, Your Grace,” Arya said.**

 

Sansa **shrieked again. “You’re  _horrible_ ,’” she screamed at her sister. “They should have killed  _you_  instead of Lady!”**

 

Shella could no longer ignore the squabble. Someone might hear. She **came lurching to her feet. “Your lord father will hear of this! Go to your chambers, at once.  _At once!_ ”**

 

**“Me too?” Tears welled in Sansa’s eyes. “That’s not fair.”**

 

**“The matter is not subject to discussion. Go!”**

 

After the girls left, Shella ground the bacon between her teeth and fumed. Throwing fruit. Asking about the etiquette regarding spiked heads. Sniping at each other like common tavern wenches. Even if she’d chosen this life, Shella would not have wanted to deal with this incessant bickering. Better to let Lord Eddard bring them in line.

 

Shella finished her breakfast, washed it down with some excellent small ale, cleaned herself up, and sought out Lord Stark. She gave him the explanation she’d rehearsed. “I told them to stop at once,” she concluded, “but Arya remains steadfast in her defense of the butcher’s boy and Sansa, of course, supports the prince.”

 

Eddard Stark sighed. “Being in the city has not benefited either of them, I’m afraid. Would you be so kind as to bring them to me?”

 

“Of course, my lord.”

 

**It was midday when Septa Mordane knocked upon [Sansa’s]door. “Sansa. Your lord father will see you now.”** There was no response. **“Sansa.”** She rapped again, sharply. **“Do you hear me?”**

 

**“Yes, Septa,” she called out. “Might I have a moment to dress, please?”**

 

**Lord Eddard was bent over a huge leather-bound book when Septa Mordane marched [Sansa] into the solar, his plaster-wrapped leg stiff beneath the table.** She steered Sansa directly in front of her father and then left to collect Arya. “Come here, Sansa,” he said, not unkindly, when the septa had gone for her sister. Septa Mordane returned with Arya squirming in her grasp.**

 

**“Here is the other one,” the septa announced**, pushing Arya forward like one might fling a spider into a fire.

 

**“My thanks, Septa Mordane. I would like to talk to my daughters alone, if you would be so kind.”**

 

**The septa bowed and left** but did not go far. She wandered the hall after failing to hear anything through the door. After several minutes, Lord Eddard shouted for her and she hurried inside. Both girls were upset, that much was clear. **Sansa cried as Septa Mordane marched them down the steps.**

 

**“Stop that weeping, child,” Septa Mordane said sternly. “I am certain your lord father knows what is best for you.”** She was beyond exasperated. If Sansa was going to carry on even after a talking-to by her lord father, there would be no peace.

 

And then Arya said a most curious thing. **“It won’t be so bad, Sansa. We’re going to sail on a galley. It will be an adventure, and then we’ll be with Bran and Robb again, and Old Nan and Hodor and the rest.” She touched [Sansa] on the arm.**

 

** _“Hodor!”_ Sansa yelled. “You ought to marry Hodor, you’re just like him, stupid and hairy and ugly!” She wrenched away from her sister’s hand, stormed into her bedchamber, and barred the door behind her.**

 

Shella ignored all that. “What’s this, child? What did you say?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Shella took her arm and shook it. “You said something about a galley.”

 

Arya pulled in her lip. There was no need for her to say more. Shella understood. _By the Crone and her lantern, we’re running away!_

 


	9. The Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM's original text denoted by **. Some timeline changes from canon.

**The morning was overcast and grim.** Shella broke her fast with Lord Stark and the girls. **Sansa, still disconsolate, stared sullenly at her food and refused to eat, but Arya wolfed down everything that was set in front of her. “Syrio says we have time for one last lesson before we take ship this evening,” she said. “Can I, Father? All my things are packed.”**

 

**“A short lesson, and make certain you leave yourself time to bathe and change. I want you ready to leave by midday, is that understood?”**

 

**“By midday,” Arya said.**

 

**Sansa looked up from her food. “If she can have a dancing lesson, why won’t you let me say farewell to Prince Joffrey?”**

 

**“I would gladly go with her, Lord Eddard,” Septa Mordane offered. “There would be no question of her missing the ship.”** Shella was, herself, not pleased to be leaving the opulence of the capital.  Why should Arya, so ill-behaved, get what she wants while Sansa is deprived of seeing the handsome prince one more time? And why should Shella be deprived of one last chance to make a favorable impression upon whomever she might chance to encounter? She did not intend to leave the Starks' service but if the queen were to order the prince's betrothed to stay . . .

 

**“It would not be wise for you to go to Joffrey right now, Sansa. I’m sorry.”**

 

**Sansa’s eyes filled with tears. “But  _why_?”**

 

**“Sansa, your lord father knows best,” Septa Mordane said. “You are not to question his decisions.”**  _Lord Baelish was right. Some of my lord’s decisions could do with a bit of questioning._ Shella knew, just knew, disgrace would dog them all the way north and then where would they be? Another prince was not likely to come about. The highest honor Shella could ever hope to achieve, septa to the  _queen_ , was to be snatched away from her and Lord Stark would not even deign to explain why. It was most vexing!

**“It's not  _fair!”_  Sansa pushed back from the table, knocked over her chair, and ran weeping from the solar.**

 

Because she had to, **Septa Mordane rose, but [Lord Stark] gestured her back to her seat. “Let her go, Septa. I will try to make her understand when we are all safely back at Winterfell.”**

 

**The septa bowed her head and sat down to finish her breakfast,** though it tasted like sour grapes.

 

Still, it was a sin to let good food go to waste. She was the last to leave the table. When she did, Shella went to commiserate with Sansa but the girl was not in her room. Perhaps she'd gone to the godswood? A sneaky voice suggested  _Maybe she's gone to the prince._  Shella sniffed.  _Good for her if she has._  Shella remembered the rumors that circulated about Olenna Redwyne, the Queen of Thorns. She maneuvered to get the marriage she wanted and maybe Sansa would have the wits to do the same. Somehow Shella doubted it, though. She thought it was more likely that the girl was weeping to her father. Shella directed her steps toward her lord's chambers.

"Save yourself the climb, Septa," the guard said. "Lord Stark isn't up there."

 

"Oh, no? Where has he gone?"

"He's meeting with the queen."

 

Shella's brows drew together. "Was Lady Sansa with him?"

 

"No, Septa."

Shella didn't know what to make of that so she returned to her own chambers and sat with a racy book she'd disclaim any knowledge of if asked. Footsteps came and went by her door. She chided herself for inattention but she was certain there was more traffic in the hall than usual. When she emerged, none of the family were there. She went to the great hall to eat and was surprised when one of the friendlier septas invited Shella to join her and the other sisters. They spoke of small matters and Shella was relieved that she seemed to be back in their good graces. She sensed an undercurrent but chose to ignore it. There were plenty of gold cloaks around. The atmosphere was watchful so surely they were safe. Yet something continued to bother Shella. When she was brought a bowlful of soup, it struck her: the city seemed to be simmering.

 

*

 

The simmer became a full boil when King Robert and his hunting party came pounding back through the city to the keep. The king had been ripped nearly in half by a boar, it was rumored, and everything was in turmoil. Shella took Sansa and Arya to the sept to pray and made sure they were seen doing so. Arya, naturally, protested but was given a swift reminder that the king was a friend of her father's and hadn't her father been nearly the only one who grieved the loss of her own friend, the butcher's boy?

 

When they left the sept, they crossed the path of that awful Hound. Before Shella could usher her away, Sansa, blue eyes wide and beseeching, called out to him. "My lord!"

The brute turned, trailed his filthy eyes all over Sansa's becoming gown, and remained silent. His gaze must have taken in Shella and Arya but he didn't acknowledge them. Shella nearly took Sansa's elbow to steer her away from this folly but the girl did persist.

 

"How fares the king?" She bravely took a step forward and somehow withstood staring full into the Hound's face.

 

"He lives . . ."

 

_My lady_ , Shella corrected automatically in her head.

 

_"_ For now."

 

Sansa sagged in relief. "Our kind queen must be ever so thankful, as we all are."

When the Hound snorted in response, Shella pointedly looked away. How dare he address his future queen like she was a winesink slattern? She would have a word with Sansa about tolerating that kind of disrespect.

 

"Would you . . ." Sansa glanced over at her septa. "Would you please tell Prince Joffrey my thoughts are with him at every hour?" Her voice trailed off to a mumble. The Hound was squinting at her.

 

"You want me to chirp your pretty words for you?"

 

"I would gladly tell him myself but I have been unable to see him."

 

"He's been busy -"

 

"Oh! I didn't mean to imply he wasn't!" Sansa babbled. "I -" Shella could feel the irritation rolling off of Arya and was close to hoping the girl would force their exit but she seemed content to glare at the prince's sworn shield.

 

"He's been busy readying himself for the king's death. You should do the same." He gestured toward her. "Get out your black dresses and your veils. Practice your sad looks."

 

"Sansa," Shella said, thinking that if the Hound was dictating fashion choices for the prince's betrothed the conversation had gone on quite long enough.

"We were just praying for his recovery, my lord."

 

The Hound barked out a laugh. "Then I'll tell Joff the funeral is off. Your prayers have robbed him of the throne. Robert's as good as healed." He laughed again at his own wit and looked Sansa over once more, his eyes glinting with amusement. Shella's own eyes darted around to see who was noticing this shaming display but people were giving them a wide berth.

 

His rudeness discomfited Sansa. When she didn't respond, he added, nastily. "Prayer isn't going to stop his guts from leaking out all over. I thought you'd know that by now."

 

_Gods, that voice. Like a choir of demons._ Shella thought she should probably contradict him but he wasn't worth the breath. She wasn't intimidated by him. It wasn't that. And, besides, he was speaking to Sansa, not her. A lady knows when to speak and when to hold her tongue.

"Will you tell the prince, my lord, if it please you?" Sansa murmured.

 

"If it please me," he sneered.

Shella curled her lip in distaste.

 

Sansa dropped him a curtsy he didn't deserve and she, Shella, and Arya continued on. The keep was crowded and it seemed everyone was looking at them though Shella failed to make eye contact with a single person.  _Sansa is looking especially well today_ , she thought,  _that's what has caught everyone's eye._

 

*

 

Soon, there were bells tolling. The king was dead. Shella felt only relief. Now there would be no leaving. Prince Joffrey would become king and he could overrule Lord Eddard’s foolhardy decision to remove Sansa from his reach. It was not, she realized clearly for the first time, Lord Stark to whom her legacy was tied but to Sansa. A Warden of the North did not need a septa but a gently bred queen did. Shella starched her skirts and waited to accompany Sansa to the coronation.

Only the coronation didn't happen. There was talk. Talk of a delay. Something about Lord Stark wanting Stannis Baratheon to take the throne. Shella was most annoyed by this and refuted the rumors to anyone who would listen.  _Why would he not want his daughter to be queen?_ she'd ask. No one could give an answer that made sense. Someone suggested Lord Stark's sense of right was greater than his want of sense but wordplay was never Shella's forte and she just laughed at the joke and smiled and changed the subject.

 

The castle was alight with rumors. Shella saw one of the septas she knew and pulled her aside. “What is going on?” she asked, trying to keep panic from her voice. But the septa just gave her a pitying look, shook off Shella’s hand, and walked on.

And then it all fell apart. The halls were flooded with gold cloaks. The Stark retainers seemed to vanish. Shella didn’t know what was happening, she only knew it was bad.

 

She bolted her door and tried not to be sick.  _They’ll spare you. You’re godsworn. They wouldn’t risk the gods’ wrath._  But where was everyone else? Where were Lord Stark and Sansa and Arya? Were they safe? Did they take the galley and leave her behind?

 

She was unsure how much time had gone by when there was a shout and a grunt and a crash like a body hitting her door. She didn’t dare open the small window in the door to find out what was happening.  _Let them forget I’m here. Let them forget all about me. Please. Mother, save me._

 

Eventually, one of the Kingsguard came for her. She was ordered to open her door and she did. There was a rough voice calling, “Stand aside!” and then the crunch of wood splintering. A girl was screaming and crying. It was not Sansa. It was Jeyne. She was trembling and her arms were purple. The Hound had her. Shella opened her mouth to protest but the one called Boros called out first. “What are you doing with  _her_? Keeping her for yourself?”

 

 “I’m following orders, Boros. I suggest you do the same. Round them up.” The Hound had Jeyne’s wrists in a loose grip, a warhammer hung from his belt. Jeyne’s head was bowed and she was crying. Shella stared as the prince’s dog opened Sansa’s door and shoved Jeyne inside. Shella meant to call out, to say something encouraging, to remind them of their courtesies, but then she was wrenched into the hall.

 

“Hound!” she cried, shocking herself. She’d never liked him but she was terrified and if he could help her, if only he could help her . . .

 

The hulking man turned and looked at her and Stranger damn her to torment if he didn’t seem reluctant. “I hope you taught her well, septa. The little bird will have to chirp now for true.”

 

_What?_ Shella was struggling to break free of the brute clutching at her and the Hound was talking about birds and then she was yanked backward and courage left her and she was dragged not to Sansa’s room but down the staircase. There were limp bodies and scarlet smears and drips and streaks on the steps and Shella goggled at them without comprehension. Only shock kept her from falling apart.

 

She was shoved into a room she’d never seen before. It was pitch black. When the door was shut and locked behind her and the footsteps faded away, a voice whispered, “Who’s that?”

 

“It’s me, Shella, Septa Mordane. Who’s that? Who’s in here?”

 

A few voices from the household responded but not one of them was from a man-at-arms. “Pray for us, Septa,” someone asked but, for the life of her, Shella couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

 

In her silence, someone suggested that Lord Stark would save them and that there must be some mistake and this person kept repeating the words like a prayer and kept on and kept on until Shella thought she would scream if she didn’t stop.

 

“Septa, where is Jeyne?” came a broken voice immediately to her left.

 

“Vayon?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I just saw Jeyne!” Knowing something, anything, for a certainty was an incredible relief. “The Hound brought her to Lady Sansa’s room.” She didn’t mention the bruises blooming on the young girl’s arms.

 

She felt the gust of an exhale. “Thank the gods,” he murmured.

 

Shella nodded, though she knew he couldn’t see her.

 

*

 

The next morning, the door was opened and a torch was thrust inside. “Who’s first?”

 

When no one responded, a man from the City Watch entered, grabbed one of the maids, and pulled her as she struggled and cried and was eventually dragged into the light.

 

“Where are you taking her?” someone asked.

 

The slamming door and the turn of a key were the only replies.

 

*

 

Shella lost all dignity when she was fetched. She’d meant to demand an audience with Lord Stark or the queen or the High Septon or the king, the kind king who had once poured her iced summerwine. Instead of one of the Kingsguard, an ugly low-ranking man with ale on his breath, grabbed at her arm and she’d instinctively pulled away so he’d cuffed her about the head, dazing her, and then grabbed her arm anyway.

When she finally found her voice, Shella shrieked, "But I'm godsworn! Godsworn!" What had been the point of it all if it offered no protection now, when she needed it most? Her beauty, what there was of it, had been wasted, shrouded by her septa's garments. Surely age should afford some consolation but no, she was manhandled, shoved, pushed, and even kicked into some courtyard. Shella blinked in the sudden light. She'd only just spotted Vayon Poole when she was seized again and her arms were bound behind her. She wanted, desperately wanted, to stop all this, to summon whatever words would return her to her former security. And she wanted these brutish underlings punished. Her mind had just started forming a prayer to the Father when she was spun around again. She saw some birds in the distance, their wings beating the air. Then she was shoved down, the stump hard against her sternum, her breath taken away, her view mud and horse shit. She sucked in a great breath to protest and heard, incongruously, the loud whoosh of a bird taking off nearby, very closely by, but in her heart she knew it was no bird at all.

"Father," she whimpered.


End file.
